Every Man for Himself
by elentari angel
Summary: Just about everyone knows of the special place the hobbits have in the King's heart - particularly the Ringbearer. But what happens when three Men decide to play on this love? After all, the hearts of Men are easily corrupted... Every man for himself...
1. Third Day

_**Every Man for Himself**_

_Just about everyone knows of the special place the hobbits have in the King's heart. Particularly the Ringbearer. What happens when two Men decide to play on this love? After all, the hearts of Men are easily corrupted… Every man for himself._

**Chapter 1: Third Day**

_3 May 3019 – After Sundown_

Peregrin Took opened his mouth and proudly allowed the familiar gas of a few good ales to pass into the stuffy air of the crowded tavern. He blatantly ignored the annoyed glare that a certain elder cousin directed at him and closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands behind his head comfortably. It was the third day since the armies of the West had returned to Minas Tirith. It also happened to be the third day since Pippin had returned to his duties as a knight of Gondor. He smiled hazily to himself. So _this_ was what it felt like to have a couple of ales after a hard day's _work_.

"Who's up for another round?"

Pippin expertly located his empty mug while still keeping his eyes shut and held it up for Merry to take and refill. His smile widened as he heard Legolas' light voice pipe up.

"I'll accompany you Master Meriadoc," he said. "I wouldn't mind another ale myself."

It was also three days since the Prince of Mirkwood had had his first ale.

"Do Elves get drunk I wonder?" mused Sam aloud as the two made their way to the bar. Pippin re-opened his eyes again and tracked the Elf as he moved through the crowds of patrons, providing a convenient wake for Merry in the process.

"I guess we'll soon find out," he said. Frodo shook his head with a smile.

"He'll not forgive you if he does," he said.

"My dear cousin!" cried Pippin, sitting up properly and staring at Frodo as if he had just announced that pigs could indeed fly. "You severely underestimate the limits to our dear Elf! Of _course_ he'll forgive us if he gets drunk! It's not in an Elf's nature to hold a grudge."

Gimli suddenly snorted and promptly began choking on his ale. Sam gave him a few well-placed thumps on the back while Frodo gave his youngest cousin a disbelieving look.

"_Us_?" he said. "If 'us' refers to yourself and Merry, I'll admit that you two have mastered the art of getting yourselves out of scrapes almost as easily as you get _into_ them. But for the record I had no part in this – nor did Sam for that matter. I do not doubt that King Thranduil still uses his dungeons from time to time. I doubt that he would be pleased if he heard that his son was seen drunk in a tavern full of drunk Men."

Pippin's face fell in disappointment. "But Legolas _always_ likes to learn more about mortals," he said. "Learning how to _not_ keep your drink is one of the most important lessons!" His eyes suddenly brightened and he looked up at his cousin with a brilliant smile. "But even if me and Merry _were_ thrown into the dungeons, I'm sure _you_ would be able to get us out. I bet the King would do _anything_ for the Ringbearer."

Frodo rolled his eyes and exchanged a look with Sam. The gardener merely smiled back serenely, though he privately agreed with the irrepressible Took.

At last Merry and Legolas returned to the table bearing six fresh mugs of ale. The table fell silent as everyone drank deeply. Well… almost all. With a shake of his head and a small smile of something along the lines of amusement, Frodo slid off his seat and made to move in the direction of the door to the tavern.

"Hoy!" called Merry. "Where are you going?"

"Outside," replied Frodo. "It's too stuffy in here. And unlike you lot, I would rather not suffer any more of the King's… remedies… than I already have to. He and Gandalf would probably _both_ crack their nuts if I got a hangover."

Sam immediately got to his feet. Seeing this, Frodo quickly stopped him. "No Sam," he said. "You stay here and finish that ale. You deserve a good night out. Don't let a silly old hobbit ruin your fun. I'll see you all back in our quarters."

Before Sam could say another word, Frodo exited the inn. The standing hobbit plonked himself back on the bench ruefully. He didn't feel right leaving his Mr Frodo alone and that was a fact.

"Oh lighten up Samwise!" said Pippin. "He'll be fine for a little while. He's just going back to the palace. What could _possibly_ happen?"

Sam sighed and took a swig from his mug. Master Pippin was probably right. But then why did the gardener not feel better? He sighed again. It was the third day since they had arrived at Minas Tirith. The third day since Frodo Baggins had been deemed fit enough to even think of making the journey. Yet here he was, going off in the dark of night, in a city that he barely knew. And he was alone.

TBC 


	2. Scheming

**_Every Man for Himself_**

****

Disclaimer: I still haven't received any letters or phone calls telling me that Lord of the Rings is mine pouts. I just don't understand it! lol. So the things that you recognise as being of Tolkien's creation – they still belong to him, while Desmond and Reynard are mine. What's this? You've never heard of Desmond and Reynard? gasps Well I'll just have to introduce you then… grins evilly

**Chapter 2: Scheming__**

_3 May 3019 – After Sundown_

Desmond son of Desril watched carefully as a small figure made his way to the door of the bustling inn. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. The little one was alone at last. He quickly drained his pint and got to his feet, walking swiftly past the bar to the door in pursuit. Along his way, he grabbed the shoulder of one Reynard son of Reynor. The man cursed as he spilt the ale he had been about to drink down his front.

"Shut yer mouth Rey yeh great lug!" hissed Desmond. "We have work ta do!"

"_Now_?" replied Reynard. "I wanna finish me ale!"

"Nothin' left ter finish now," snapped Desmond. "Asides, you was only here to gawp at them barmaids. If yeh think yeh'll get anythin' more'n ale outta young Arlyn yeh'll need the gold first!"

"Don't tell me yer still on about that flamin' scheme again!" groaned Reynard in agitation. "I'm tellin' yeh, it won't work! The halflin's always got some'un scamperin' about with 'im."

"So is that why I just saw the little imp leavin' here all on 'is lonesome?" snapped Desmond impatiently. He pushed Reynard out of the door and onto the street before following himself. "Yer good at findin' people Rey," coaxed Desmond. "I can't do this without yeh."

Reynard thought about this for a moment, glaring at the taller, darker fellow all the while. But at last he grumbled his agreement. After all, he could do with some more gold… Desmond grinned at him with a malicious air.

"Good," he said. "Now this little halflin' shouldn' be too hard ta find. Dark hair, blue eyes and half our height. Heard 'im say 'e was goin' back ta the palace."

Reluctantly, Reynard grinned too. "Well then," he said. "Let's get us some gold."

The two men lifted the hoods of their black cloaks to shadow their faces, and swiftly they moved through the maze of streets and alleys. A lifetime of thieving had taught them all of the roads and convenient shortcuts in the city. They knew the twists and turns of Minas Tirith better than the backs of their hands. Eventually, they caught up with the hobbit who continued on his own way, completely oblivious to the two large shadows that had joined his own.

"This'll be easier than I thought," murmured Desmond, half to himself. His dark mind lapsed into thoughts of what he would do when he became rich. Visions of being waited on hand and foot by the city's more… desirable company… filled his mind. To say the least, he was most disgruntled when his partner-in-crime interrupted these thoughts with a tug on his sleeve.

"Des," hissed Reynard. "Have you thought about how we're gonna get the halflin' with all these folks about? And what are we gonna tie 'im up with? And how are we gonna keep 'im quiet? And how-"

"We won't need ta tie 'im up," growled Desmond, his beady black eyes always trained on the hobbit as they continued to stalk him. "We cover 'is mouth, pull 'im into an alley and knock 'im out. Then we carry 'im back ta my place and go from there."

Reynard breathed a soft 'oh' of understanding and focused the rest of his attention on the hobbit.

* * *

Frodo paused at one of the stalls that was still open for business. He looked in fascination at the hundreds of trinkets that glittered in the warm glow of some lanterns. He never ceased to be amazed at the contraptions of Men. They were… well… different. They weren't quite so delicate as those of Elven make, nor were they as complicated as the ones made by Dwarves. They were strangely solid, yet mysterious. Rather like Men themselves, he mused. He smiled at his thoughts. Yes, Men certainly were a mystery to hobbits. After all – why in the Valar's name did they need all these ridiculous bits and bobs?

He turned away from the stall, smiling his thanks at the lady who owned it. But almost as soon as he had stepped onto the main road again, he was practically whisked off by a pair of strange men.

* * *

"Look!" said Reynard eagerly. "'E's coming this way."

"Right," said Desmond quickly. "I've got an idea. Follow my lead, okay?" Reynard had barely enough time to nod in acknowledgement before Desmond lowered his hood and jumped out of hiding, right in front of the startled hobbit.

"Good evenin' young master!" cried Desmond with as bright a smile as he could manage. "How are yeh this fine night?"

"F-fine thank you," stammered Frodo, still recovering from his shock at turning around to see these men in front of him. The taller one with the darker, more straggly hair – the one who had spoken – took his arm and started guiding him down the street.

"Glad ta hear it!" boomed Desmond. His smile broadened. "All set ta turn in fer the night I imagine?"

"Er… yes," answered Frodo. "I guess so."

"Well, my good sir!" cried Desmond. "I have just the thing fer yeh! How would yeh fancy a nice light book ta read afore yeh drop off. A good ol' story always helps me get ta sleep."

"Yeah!" piped Reynard. "Works like a charm!"

"We sell the best books that money can buy in this city!" put in Desmond. His smile widened as he saw Frodo's eyes light up. Desmond had always been good at telling people just what they wanted to hear. He was like one of those fly-eating flowers that they got way down in southern Harad. He lured in his unsuspecting prey with the right words, then when they were close enough… BAM! He shut the trap. This hobbit was going to be just as easy to bait as all the rest. "How would yeh like ta take a look at our stocks?"

For a moment Frodo hesitated. It was getting late… The others would probably be on their way back soon. They would be terribly worried if they returned and he had not. But then again, it had been ever so long since he had been able to enjoy a good book. He hadn't yet had the chance to explore the grand libraries of the citadel. Even in Rivendell he had been too preoccupied to give its enormous library the proper attention that he felt it needed. Yes, he had been itching for a good book for a _long_ time. He smiled up tentatively at the two men.

"Alright," he said. "I'd like to take a quick look, if you wouldn't mind. You must be getting ready to close up."

"Nah," dismissed Reynard with a wave of his hands. "Take all the time yeh want!"

"We're just gettin' started," hissed Desmond under his breath.

Frodo frowned as the men led him into a dark lane. It was almost as if someone had pulled a cloth over his eyes. He could only very dimly make out the two large figures on either side of him.

A prickle of fear slithered up his spine, making him tremble. Considering the events of the last six or so months, it was to be understood that he was no fan of the dark. He turned his head about – desperate for something other than shadows to greet his eyes.

Perhaps if he hadn't been so plagued by this mounting fear, he would have realised sooner that they had stopped walking. But alas – when realisation dawned, it was too late. Something heavy and painfully solid impacted with the side of his head. It was a merciful thing that he was unaware before his limp body impacted with the cruel stone of the cold ground.

TBC 

_A/N: First of all, THANK YOU LEXI! I couldn't have done this without you! Thank you for all your support and input. You've been my angel! :D Another huge thanks to Iorhael for taking the time to help me out. You have been an inspiration! :D_

_Ashley – I'm glad you liked it! I've always wondered if Elve's get drunk too, hehehe. But more on that in the next chapter… ;)_

_Breon__ Briarwood – I totally agree! They _are_ famous last words! Hope that popcorn is good!_

_cpsings4him – Awww you're so sweet! Thank you sooooo much! J I hope I continue to live up to your great praise!_

_CuriousCat__ – Thank you! Hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'm looking forward to finishing the next one…_

_lovethosehobbits__ – Lol, hope you still are! Is this soon enough? ;)_

_Mythwen__ – Frodo and Sam do seem to live by that law don't they. And you're right! It is _never _good when anyone says that!_

_rabidsamfan__ – I hope you're still 'hanging nicely', lol. Thanks for your review!___

_Shadow The Tiger – My deepest apologies for leaving you hanging like that, lol. Hope this chapter makes up for it a bit._


	3. Wizards are Quick to Anger

**_Every Man for Himself_**

Disclaimer: Nope – don't own Lord of the Rings or anything else related to it. Basically if you don't recognise it from the books or movies, it's mine :D

**Chapter 3: Wizards are Quick to Anger**

_3 May 3019 – Late at Night_

Merry gave an almighty yawn as he stretched his limbs, throwing his arms back so that he narrowly missed knocking out Pippin's eye and breaking Gimli's nose.

"Well I'm done," he said. "Are we all ready to go now?"

"I'm more than ready Mr Merry," sighed Sam. Pippin groaned.

"Honestly Sam!" he exclaimed. "I don't know what you're getting so worried about. It's not _that_ far to the palace. Really, what's the worst that could happen?"

"More than I'd like ta think," grumbled Sam. Pippin opened his mouth to retaliate but was cut short by Merry.

"Well," he said. "We could either sit here arguing about what could and could not happen to Frodo between here and the palace – or we could go back ourselves and see if he's returned already. I vote for the latter."

"That sounds like a marvellous plan, Meriadoc!" said Legolas brightly. The hobbits and Gimli eyed the Elf suspiciously.

"If not for Master Samwise's mental well-being," said Gimli. "I say we go back to our rooms to put _him_ to bed. We've proved that Elves can get drunk, but I don't want to find out whether or not they suffer hangovers."

"Master Dwarf!" exclaimed Legolas with such a look of shock that Merry and Pippin had to duck their heads to hide their laughter. "I assure you that I am _not_ drunk! Such a thing is below immortal folk like myself."

"Is that so?" said Gimli conversationally. He got to his feet and helped Legolas up, guiding the Elf to the door. The hobbits followed, stifling their laughs as Legolas called goodnight to everyone in the inn, the inn itself, the door of the inn, and the stairs leading up to the door of the inn.

"He really _must_ have had a lot to drink," mumbled Sam to no one in particular. Merry and Pippin grinned. Their work was done.

* * *

It didn't take the group long to reach their quarters. Upon their arrival at the city, they had been given a small apartment to share in the palace. Consisting of four modest-sized bedrooms and two bathrooms, they had made themselves quite comfortable there. They had, of course, been offered to have a room each, and larger ones at that. But the hobbits had felt rather uncomfortable at the thought of being alone in such large spaces. And as the rest of the Fellowship preferred to be closer to one another than further apart, the apartment had been chosen for their quarters.

That was where they were now. Gimli pushed Legolas to the room they shared, all the while grumbling under his breath for the rather loud Elf to be quiet. No doubt Frodo was already in bed and asleep by now. Not to mention that Gandalf was probably seeking some peace and quiet in his own room.

For a few moments the three hobbits watched in interest as Gimli tried unsuccessfully to convince Legolas to be quiet, go to bed and sleep. But the Elf seemed to think it absolutely necessary to stand in the middle of the hallway and start singing about an Elf-maiden named Elwen. With an amused shake of his head, Sam turned to the room he shared with Frodo. He was just in time to hear Merry and Pippin join Legolas in the singing before he carefully closed the door, mindful of his sleeping master.

Only his master was not sleeping. Nor was he waking. In fact, Frodo wasn't there at all.

* * *

It had been a long day. Aragorn had required Gandalf's presence and counsel at several long and arduous meetings. The wizard had forgotten how disagreeable the various tribes of Men could be. He had returned to his room after the last council with the makings of a spectacular headache. He had not suffered such a thing for a very long time. Not when he had fought at the Black Gates of Mordor, nor on the Fields of Pelennor. He had not suffered a headache when he had fought with the Balrog – just a lot of burns. His head had been quite fine while battling the Orcs of Moria, just as it had while he had tried to lead the Fellowship over Caradhras.

Of course, there had been that unfortunate incident in Hollin where a certain young Took had accidentally kicked dirt into the dinner of half of the Fellowship. Sam had been absolutely furious, as it was the first hot meal Gandalf had allowed them in a long time. Not to mention that Frodo hadn't been eating as much as he should, and that stew happened to be one of his favourites. As Frodo had been in a bad mood that day, he had then been angry at Pippin _and_ Sam – Pippin because he had just cut the meal in half, and Sam for using such tactics to try and get him to eat more. Merry had then tried to act as peacemaker, but had ended up getting into an argument with both Frodo and Pippin. Sam had watched this family feud in fearful silence, all the while inching closer to Aragorn and Legolas. As a result, the hobbits had slept in separate corners of the camp that night, refusing to look at, talk about, or have anything to do with any of the other three.

Gandalf almost laughed at the memory now. The rest of the Fellowship had watched the entire episode with a sense of grim fascination. It had never occurred to them before that the four could have such arguments. But as Boromir had later said, at least that night there had been no trouble determining which curly head was to be woken for his watch, as usually the hobbits slept in a close nest of blankets. If one was woken up – they all woke up.

Surprisingly, that episode was the closest Gandalf had come to a headache in a while. But of course that was nothing compared to the pounding his head currently suffered. And it was only increasing. His brows drew into a dark frown as raucous singing that was very out of tune drifted to his ears. With a swiftness that belied his great age, he strode to the door and almost tore it off its hinges in his haste to open it. If he had not been in such a foul mood, no doubt he would have found the sight before him quite amusing.

But as it happened, he _was_ in a foul mood. As soon as he entered the hallway, the others froze, staring up at him with identical looks of deer caught in the line of fire of a crossbow.

"_What_ is the meaning of _this_?" thundered Gandalf. The very air seemed to quake with his wrath. Pippin instinctively inched closer to Merry, hoping to avoid Gandalf's full attention. He was unlucky. Gandalf spun towards him, every fibre of his being set on putting the irrepressible Took back in his place, when a second door burst open. All eyes turned to Samwise as he looked about himself wildly. He was pale as the moon and trembling like a leaf.

"Sam, what's wrong?" asked Merry with a worried frown.

Sam opened and closed his mouth several times, seeming to have trouble getting his tongue around the words he wished to form. Five pairs of eyes looked at him expectantly. Finally he swallowed and put sound to his panicked thoughts.

"Mr Frodo's not come back!"

TBC 

_A/N: THANK YOU LEXI!!!!! Hehehe. You're still my angel! :) And thank you Bronwyn for going through it all with me :D_

_Breon__ Briarwood – I love Frodo in trouble stories too. Hehehe. And you're very right, Sam is probably never going to forgive himself._

_Mythwen__ – Sorry! Please do not sue for health problems! Should I put a health warning on the fic? Lol. I hope this is updating soon enough. :)_

_rabidsamfan__ – Poor Frodo indeed! Hehehe. But don't assume! These two men are forces not to be taken lightly. They are more cunning than they have let on so far. Aragorn's going to have some trouble actually getting his hands on them before he can hang them… ;)_

_Shirebound__ – OMG IT'S YOU!!!!!! Sorry, but I am a HUGE fan of your work!!! Thank you for reviewing!!! And you'll soon find out exactly what happens to our poor little Hobbit. But it's not gonna be nice…_


	4. One Darkness into Another

**_Every Man for Himself_**

****

_Disclaimer: LOTR still isn't mine. Not making any money out of this. 'Tis all purely for your enjoyment (and mine). So enjoy! :D_

**Chapter 4: One Darkness into Another**

_3 May 3019 – Late at Night_

Even before he was fully aware again, he was struck hard with a sensation of pain. It was like a blizzard – merciless and unquenchable in its wrath. As he made the slow journey back to consciousness, he became more cognisant of the incessant pounding in his head, particularly around his left temple. His neck was aching beyond belief, and he was certain that his wrists and ankles were on fire. His left ankle felt particularly tender though – in fact his entire left side seemed to be distinctly worse off than his right. But his left shoulder was another story entirely. _That_ pain was in a league of it's own. It hadn't felt this bad since his last encounter with the nazgûl. Deep in the muscle he felt a pulse like a heart made of cruel ice.

  For a moment he wondered how and why he felt so terrible. Then his body went rigid, despite the increase of pain. As his brain began to work a little faster, it suddenly occurred to him how familiar this position and pain was. Throbbing neck, throbbing head, painful shoulder, burning wrists and ankles…

  He wanted to scream out in denial. How could this _be_? He could not _possibly_ have dreamed the last month and a half… Could he? But here he was with the same pains as he had felt on March the 13th when he had awoken in Cirith Ungol. When he had awoken to find the world a nightmare.

  His other senses were clearing now also. He was lying on a hard and unforgivable floor of stone. It was cold with wet patches here and there. He was lying on his left side, which would explain why that half of him was suffering more.  His arms and legs were bound tightly with a thick rope. So tightly that his hands and feet were going numb. That explained the burning effects then. But not the horrid stench that filled his nostrils.

  He paused as the full meaning of this new realisation impacted with him. Before Cirith Ungol he had been unfortunate enough to smell Orcs before. But this scent was different. While it was still foul enough, this reek wasn't quite as overpowering, nor as sickening as the stink of the slaves of evil. A tiny light of hope flickered into life within him. Perhaps it hadn't all been a dream after all!

  But then why was he in so much pain? What had happened? Had he just been stung by Shelob and kidnapped by Orcs? Or had something else occurred? His foggy memory fought desperately to find the answer. He vaguely remembered an old inn and lots of Men. But beyond that… everything was a blur.

  He heaved a mental sigh. There was nothing for it. He was waking up. His eyes fluttered open, only to find that he had gone from one darkness into another. Wherever he was, it was pitch black. His eyes darted about desperately, seeking to distinguish something – anything from the gaping black void about him.

  He was struggling now. Struggling against his bonds, against his fears, against the madness that was threatening to consume him. Aragorn had _promised_ that there would be no more darkness! He suddenly had a vivid memory of the King kneeling down to his level and clasping his hands, swearing reassurances that the darkness had been destroyed and would threaten no more.

  _THEN WHY WAS IT STILL DARK_?

  He flipped over onto his back, a small grunt being the only sign of his momentary flare of pain. He was no longer struggling. He was fighting. He bit into the bonds around his wrists, somehow managing to locate the knot. Then with a ferocity some wild animal might be expected to possess, he tore at it with his teeth, only stopping when his mouth and throat became so dry that he broke into a fit of coughing.

  At the time he counted those coughs as a blessing sent straight down to him from the Valar themselves. For when they subsided, he distinctly heard heavy footsteps coming closer and closer.

  Suddenly his prayers were answered, and light met his eyes. A door opened from somewhere above him, spilling a warm yellow glow onto several stone steps leading down to the floor in which he lay. He blinked rapidly a few times, his eyes adjusting to the new light. Then he realised that he was in fact in a cellar, although the shelves that normally would have held bottles of wine were empty. In fact the whole place was empty but for him. And the man that stood at the top of the staircase.

  The first thing that Frodo realised about this man was how tall he was. He was perhaps just a little shorter than Aragorn. But Aragorn was certainly not so menacing. The light that spilled from behind the man erased his features into a taunting silhouette. His previous madness now completely forgotten, Frodo shrank back. He had been in the company of bad people before. After being so cautious and wary of everyone he encountered while bearing the Ring, his instincts had become somewhat more refined. He did not doubt for a heartbeat that this man was going to do him a lot more harm than good.

  But the man seemed to sense this new fear. Frodo fancied that his lips curled into a smile, and his eyes glinted with a repugnant satisfaction.

  "Well, well, well," he said. There was a dangerous softness to his voice that sent a fearful chill down Frodo's spine. "Awake at last I see."

  He spoke with a taunting tone that caused Frodo to momentarily forget his fear in indignation. "Who are you?" he demanded. "What do you want with me?" Regardless of this new anger, he was dismayed at how weak his voice sounded – even to himself. Even the man laughed – a truly terrible sound, for it was cold and merciless. Frodo mused grimly that he probably would have done well in the service of Sauron.

  "Who am I?" repeated the man. He laughed softly to himself again before descending the stairs until he stood right over the hobbit. He squatted down until their faces were only inches apart. "I am yer new definition of hell, little thing. And you… Yer what's gonna make me rich."

TBC

_A/N: As ever, thank you Lexi for helping me out with some of the finer details. sends BIIIIIIG hug :D_

_Breon__ Briarwood – Thank you! I hope it continues to be 'good' too! :D As for drunken Legolas, I'll be playing around with that a bit more in future chapters. ;)_

_Curious Cat – I'm glad you enjoyed the 'fuss'. And you are absolutely right! The hobbits can't be expected to stick together _all _of the time! And when you've got someone as stubborn as Frodo, someone as… let's say immature as Pippin, someone who's like a bit of a mix of them both as Merry, and someone like Sam who's just trying to do the right thing for everyone, something's bound to give! And I have no idea what it is about Frodo! He just _asks_ to get into trouble! Hehehe._

_hush1630 – I'm glad you're hooked! Thank you! And poor Frodo indeed! He's not having a very good time of this, is he? Hope I'm updating quick enough! :D_

_Iorhael__ – Glad to hear from you again! :D Thank you very much for the other email! I did reply (albeit a bit belatedly, sorry!) and I am glad to say that you're input has helped me greatly! I'm glad you're glad that you're someone's inspiration, hehehe._

_Kaewi__ – I'm sure the journey from Rivendell to Parth Galen was _packed_ with little episodes like the dirt in the dinner! Hehehe. _ESPECIALLY_ when you're travelling in the company of four such prone hobbits as these four! :D_

_Mythwen__ – Yes, THE question has finally been answered! Glad I'm updating quick enough! :D It's been hard _not_ to write more! My laptops' just been begging me to continue. Hehehe._

_Pip4 – Glad to hear you're enjoying it! Hope this latest chapter is still good. And you'll soon see _exactly_ what happens to Frodo and the others! They're all in for a bit of a hard time, that's for sure. ;)_

_rabidsamfan__ – lol. I'll make an exception for you to laugh just this once! Hehehe. I'm glad you enjoyed it so much! The 'hobbit spat' just kinda wrote itself, but I did have fun doing it! Thank you very much too!_


	5. Lost

**_Every Man for Himself_**

****

_Disclaimer: sighs I really don't know what is wrong with the world. The people who own Lord of the Rings simply refuse to hand it over to me. shakes head I just don't understand it! So I guess it all still belongs to the almighty Tolkien… Hmph!_

**Chapter 5: Lost**

_3 May 3019 – Late at Night_

"What do you mean he's not come back?" demanded Merry. "How could he not be back? He left over an hour before us!"

"Merry calm down!" said Pippin loudly, resting both hands on his cousin's shoulders.

"But why isn't he back? What-"

"I _told_ you something would go wrong! You should-"

"The hills are aliiiiiiive with the sound of-"

"_Now_ I know why the friendship between Dwarves and those pointy-ears disintegrated-"

"But what are we going to _do_? We have to go look-"

"He could be-"

"_SILENCE_!"

There was an audible 'pop' as the mouths of Gimli and Legolas snapped shut, and an almighty squawk from the Hobbits as they jumped in fright. They all stared up at Gandalf who had his eyes shut and was furiously massaging his temples.

"Samwise, what is this about Frodo not returning?" said the wizard tightly. Sam gulped and opened his mouth again.

"H-he left the inn a good hour ago, sir," he stammered. "I tried to go with him. But he s-said he would be fine on his own. And when I went to look in on him in our room… he's not there, sir!"

Gandalf's eyes flew open and he fairly stormed past the Fellowship, entering Frodo and Sam's room. Sam was right – there was no sign that life had entered before now since this morning. His eyes darted up to the windows. They were firmly shut and locked. They could only be opened and locked from the inside, ruling out the possibility of someone coming in and abducting the Hobbit. And the windows were too high up for any of the Hobbits to get in and out of easily – and Frodo was in no condition to perform any such acrobatics.

Which meant that something must have happened to him between the inn and the palace. As guards heavily patrolled the whole of the seventh circle, that also ruled out anything happening there. Which narrowed it down further to the sixth, fifth and fourth circles.

"Gandalf?"

The wizard was brought back to then and there as Pippin tugged on his robes. "What are we going to do?"

"We are going to look for him," answered Gandalf.

"Should I fetch Strider?" Pippin wanted to know. Gandalf thought about this for a moment before he decided against the notion. It would only arouse unwanted attention if the King personally got involved in the search for the Ringbearer. More likely than not, Frodo had just lost his way through the maze of streets and alleys. Yes, that would be it. He was just lost…

* * *

Frodo looked up into the man's face, terror's icy grip clenching his stomach into a tight knot. This couldn't be happening. It simply couldn't. He was dreaming! That was it! He was dreaming… Any moment he was going to wake up and find himself back in his room. Then he would have a drink of water, turn over on his side and go straight back to sleep again.

Of course, the man's booming laugh made it a little hard to hold much hope of this happening. Desmond had heard rumours of the halfling's deeds in the war – deeds of tremendous bravery and strength of will. He had heard that this little one had even faced the Dark Lord. Yet here he was, lying on the filthy ground, wounded, bound and trembling like a mere child in a ferocious thunderstorm.

So much for brave.

But Frodo was not about to completely surrender himself to this new doom. Some of the infamous Took, Brandybuck and Baggins stubbornness awoke inside of him. If he was going to be held captive, then he wanted some answers.

"You still haven't answered my questions," he said defiantly. "Who are you?"

Desmond raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. He was not often challenged by anyone – much less some little rat who was less than half his size. Perhaps he was braver than the man had initially credited him as being. That or he was just incredibly stupid – something Desmond doubted as the imp had a rather intelligent look about him… and he apparently enjoyed reading.

"Name's Desmond," he answered gruffly. "Not that yeh'll need ta remember it. If yer gonna address me, yeh'll call me 'sir'." Desmond grinned maliciously. Although the halfling wasn't going to be in his custody long, he might as well have a bit of fun while he was.

"Or what?"

Frodo was shocked at his own daring and defiance. His brain was practically screaming at him that this was a Man not to mess around with. But he just couldn't help it. He had been held captive too many times and it was getting rather tedious. He was almost sick of being beaten and told what to do.

_SMACK_!

But it seemed that being beaten was unavoidable when one was a prisoner – no matter how passive and obedient you were. Or how completely uncontrollable for that matter. Frodo's head snapped back as Desmond's large beefy hand struck the side of his face. For the second time that night, his head impacted hard with the ground.

Desmond was gone. The door slammed shut. From far away he heard the click of it being locked. Darkness surrounded him once more. But his eyes saw tiny stars flashing about like fading fireworks. He thought of Gandalf. He wondered if the wizard was sleeping yet. The thought of sleep suddenly sounded very enticing. He closed his eyes. He let the darkness take him.

* * *

His hands were shaking. For a moment he stared at them in surprise. He was not known to tremble for no apparent reason. Oh but there was a reason. After all, his cousin was missing. And that was not a thing Frodo was known to do. On the contrary, Frodo had a very good geographic mind. He could even give Bilbo a run for his money on occasion. Frodo had been studying maps of Middle Earth since he was just a teenager in Brandy Hall. Finding his way through three circles of a city should not have been a problem for him.

No… something was definitely wrong. Merry knew it. He had known Frodo since he, Merry, had been born. Frodo had been the older brother he never had. They had a special connection.

Once in the middle of winter, when Merry had been about six years old, he had woken up in the middle of the night with a terrible feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. For some reason that he could not explain, he desperately needed to see his elder cousin. But Frodo had not been in his room. Come to think of it, Merry hadn't seen him since luncheon. He had at once gone to tell his parents and a small search party had been sent out. The missing hobbit had been found unconscious in the snow with a nasty cut on his head. It had been surmised that he had somehow fallen, his head impacting with a hidden rock on the ground. Frodo had been taken straight back to Brandy Hall where the healer had announced that he had come down with pneumonia.

"But any longer out there and the circumstances would be much more dire," he had said.

Merry had that same feeling of dread buried deep in his stomach now, making him feel as though he was going to be sick. Gimli shot him a worried look as the pair made their way through their allocated circle. They were going to search the sixth circle while Sam and Legolas would search the fifth. Gandalf would hunt in the fourth circle while Pippin stayed in the Fellowship's apartment, should Frodo turn up on his own.

But for some horrible reason, Merry knew that he wouldn't. Something was definitely wrong. As he followed Gimli through the streets and alleys, his eyes peeled for any sign of his cousin, he distantly wondered why there was a dull throb in his left shoulder.

* * *

Gandalf exited the tavern, his heart heavy. Frodo was not there, and had not returned since he had left. No one had seen him for the last hour or so. He sighed and closed his eyes, gnarled hands clutching his staff. In his mind he saw individual flames for each living spirit that resided in the city. Out of the thousands about him, he tried to sort out Frodo's flame. But it was a difficult task. Weeks earlier he would not have had such trouble. But the power of Narya was failing. And with the noise of the inn behind him invading his concentration… the task was futile.

With another sigh, he opened his eyes and started back towards the palace. He had been searching for little over an hour now, and was expected back. Yet every step he took away from the tavern, his feeling of unease increased. His friend had been lost. Despite the fact that Frodo had never been out of hearing range of either a soldier or friend since he had been rescued from Mount Doom, he was now lost. As Gandalf entered the palace, he could not help but feel he had betrayed his friend again.

* * *

Desmond glared moodily into the blazing flames that lit up the small and grubby parlour with a weak glow. He hadn't counted on the halfling having spirit. If he caused any more trouble, the neighbours would get suspicious and rumours would begin to dribble out. He couldn't afford such things to occur. He would risk his identity being revealed. Then that cocky king would have him arrested with a snap of his royal fingers.

He diverted his glare to Reynard as he entered, plopping himself onto a rundown footstool. The fool was grinning to himself like a maniac.

"What are _you_ so happy about?" grumbled Desmond, infuriated that anyone, predominantly his so-called partner, should be able to find any sort of glee while he was feeling so particularly foul.

"Jus' bin thinkin' 'bout what I'm gonna do when we get our money," answered Reynard. Desmond proceeded to create a strange animalistic noise in his throat. Reynard glanced up at him, wondering if the man had suddenly contracted some sort of violent, contagious disease. "What's up with _you_?"

"At this rate we're not gonna get any money!" spat Desmond furiously. He leapt up to his feet and began pacing before the fire like a caged beast. "I went down ter check on the halflin' earlier."

"And?" prompted Reynard when the other didn't immediately continue.

"The damn rat's an insolent little devil!" roared Desmond. "'E shows no respect an' 'e talks back!"

"So what?" dismissed Reynard as he moved into Desmond's vacated chair. "If the li'l thing's still got some spirit left in 'im, then yeh jus' beat 'im! Simple as that!"

"Wha' if the neighbours hear?" challenged Desmond. "What yeh gonna tell 'em when they come around askin' questions?"

"Tell 'em some o' those flamin' kids 'ave bin trespassin' and yeh gave 'em a lesson."

"That won't cut it," protested Desmond. Reynard groaned in aggravation.

"Then gag 'im! Knock 'im out! Give 'im one o' them potions the Healers use ter put people ter sleep! There's a thousand things yeh can do ter keep 'im quiet."

"But we still need 'im ta write the ransom note."

"Then threaten 'im with somethin'!" exclaimed Reynard. "Honestly, what's gotten into yeh? A few hours ago you was the one convincing me! Yeh can't be doubting the plan _now_?"

"Course I'm not," answered Desmond gruffly. "We're still gonna go through with it. 'S too late not to now. We jus' gotta be extra careful, see?"

"Yeah, yeah," said Reynard offhandedly.

"I mean it!" barked Desmond. "I'm not gonna have yeh stuffin' this up! Now you stay here and guard the halflin'. I'm gonna get some supplies."

"Alright."

"Make sure yeh check on the halflin'," said Desmond as he made his way to the door. "If yeh need ter give 'im a bit of a lesson, do it. But make sure 'e don't squeal too much. Right?"

"Whatever yeh say Des," said Reynard with a grin. He watched as Desmond disappeared into the night, then he closed the door. Spinning around, he made his way down to the cellar. The halfling was still out. He pulled up a stool and sat leaning against a wall. He lazily cracked his fingers and knuckles. It was only a matter of time now before he could have his own fun. Then the little rat would wish he had never been born.

TBC

_A/N: Lexi, you are my official guardian angel. :P My apologies to everyone for the delay in updating! It took a while before I was satisfied and deemed it postable, lol. Well there it is anyway._

_Alcarinqu – Hope to bring you more soon then! And you're not alone – we ALL feel bad for Frodo!_

_Breon Briarwood – Ha! The nightmare has hardly begun! It's gonna get MUCH more worse than this I can assure you! A few nasty surprises are in store for the Fellowship and co._

_CuriousCat – Disturbing indeed.__ But then again, Desmond isn't known for being the kind and sentimental type. The exact opposite in fact. And you'll be seeing more examples of that in future chapters._

_Indolosse – Hahahaha. Thanks Bronwyn. I can't believe I managed to get YOU obsessed! Hehehehe. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you and I will be expecting some fanart now! So you better get drawing! :D_

_Iorhael – I'm so sorry! I meant to update sooner, but it wasn't ready. Well, glad you like 'em anyway! :D And well done on your latest chapter of 'A Brandybuck Turns Baggins'! :D Twas most enthralling. :D_

_Kaewi – I know! It's just not fair is it seeing him in such trouble. But then we all get to cuddle him at the end and tell him it's okay, hehehehe. Thank you very much for the compliment too! There's no greater reward than for an author (or someone who's attempting to be one) to hear that their work 'comes alive'. Hope I can keep it up! :)_

_lilpip__ – Poor Frodo indeed! Prepare to be disappointed – nasty times ahead for him…_

_rabidsamfan__ – Thanks! I really don't know what's come over me, but I find a strange delight in leaving you all hanging, mwahahahaha. And after all Frodo's been through, I figured it would all still haunt him for a long time to come._

_Shirebound – Uh-oh. Looks like you might have to submit yourself into a mental institution then. More torture and bad violence is coming up soon._

_Stephanie – Welcome! Thank you very much! Glad that I've managed to get some originality in there. There's so many fics out, it's hard to do something now that hasn't been done already. Hope to keep you excited and on the edge of your seat…:D_


	6. To Be Cared For

**_Every Man for Himself_**

****

_Disclaimer: sobs It's not mine! They won't give it to me! It's all Tolkien's! Why? WHY? WHY????? Well, at least I get ownership of Desmond and Reynard. Oh great. That really makes my day. I get to own two criminals who kidnap poor little Frodo. cries POOR FRODO! I'm not being terribly nice to him, am I? Oh well. Let's see what happens to him next…_

**Chapter 6: To Be Cared For**

_4 May 3019 – Before __Sunrise___

He was fairly certain that his head was going to explode at any moment now. In all his fifty years he had never suffered such a phenomenal headache. He groaned as he tried to bring a hand up to his temples. He frowned as he tried again to bring a hand up to his temples. He made a sound of deep frustration as he tried for a third time to bring a hand up to his temples. Any hand would do. Or even a couple of fingers! How about one? Surely he would be permitted to bring one little finger up to his temples.

This was getting ridiculous. He opened his eyes a crack, and saw the answer to his predicament – his hands were tied. He groaned in further irritation. What in the Shire had possessed his hands to do that? He opened his eyes a little more, being mindful of their sensitivity to the light. He examined the knot and rope binding his hands in front of him.

Wait a minute. He could see. Why could he see? He wasn't supposed to be able to see. It was supposed to be dark. Why wasn't it dark? He frowned and with an effort, flipped over onto his other side. He gave a whimper of pain as his left shoulder and ankle protested strongly to this movement. He looked down at his feet. Yes – the left was swollen. He must have twisted it when he fell over in that alley.

Hang on! _That_ was what had happened to him. He had been walking back to the citadel from that inn in the fourth circle. Then he had met those two fellows who had led him into an alley, knocked him on the head (hard), bound him (tightly) and taken him to this miserable (and cold) dump. Ooh. So _that_ was why a patch of hair was plastered to the side of his forehead in a most annoying manner. He had probably received a nasty cut from being hit so hard by that… whatever it had been.

As this onslaught of new revelations struck him, making him feel all the more dizzy and nauseous, he mentally berated himself for his outstanding demonstration of stupidity. Book sellers indeed! What self-respecting bookshop was open after dark? He was known in every single bookshop in the Shire. He knew the libraries of Bag End, the Great Smials and Brandy Hall better than the back of his hand. He knew the working hours of librarians and booksellers better than they did themselves. So why hadn't he realised that something was wrong? Why had he let himself be lured in by those two big brutes?

He gave a bitter laugh. He had only himself to blame after all. Just like he had himself to blame for not seeing the second thug that was sitting beside him, sooner. This man was slightly smaller in build than the first. His hair was reddish-brown in colour – underneath all the filth that covered it, and his eyes were similar to a pig's – small and a watery blue. They looked to be slightly bloodshot. Frodo mused that it would come as no shock if this Man should turn out to be a drunk.

At that moment, he was sitting on a stool, watching Frodo with a strange look in those eyes. All laughter, bitter or otherwise, evaporated from the hobbit's lips in a heartbeat. He watched the man warily, noticing that he had a sheathed knife tucked into his belt.

"Who are you?" asked Frodo tentatively. The man's lips curled into a smile.

"Reynard," he said. He spoke with the same dangerous softness as Desmond had, not that it mattered terribly much to Frodo.

"Must I call you 'sir' as well?" he said sarcastically. Reynard laughed.

"No," he said. "Yeh'll call _me_ 'Yer Highness'… or 'Yer Lordship'. Or how about 'Yer Majesty'?" Frodo's brows drew down into a frown of disgust.

"The only person who will be given such titles is the King," he said coldly. He looked Reynard up and down. "_You_ will never be anything more than a common _lout_!"

Even before the words had all flowed from his lips, he knew he had just made a big mistake. He mentally slapped himself. _You idiot!_ screamed his head. _What's wrong with you? Do you _want_ to be killed?_

Right on cue, Reynard jumped from his stool, causing it to topple over. He knelt on the ground next to Frodo. The hobbit was helpless as Reynard's fist impacted hard with his stomach, winding him to the same effect as if a troll had just sat on him. He gasped in pain, wishing fervently that he hadn't had so much to eat and drink at the tavern. With a great effort, he forced the contents of his stomach back down. He doubted very much that either of the Men would give him anything to change into or to clean himself up with if he was sick all over himself. He looked back up at Reynard, bracing himself for further attacks. With a swiftness that Frodo had not expected the man to possess, he gripped the hobbit's throat with one hand, while reaching to his belt and drawing out the filthy knife with his other. He held the grimy blade up so Frodo could see it clearly.

"While it's jus' you and me, halflin'," snarled Reynard. "Let's get a few things straight. While yer with me, yeh'll speak only when yer told to. If yeh don', yeh'll be punished. Any more of yer cheeky talk-back, and I will personally hack that tongue off with this knife here." He thrust the blade closer to Frodo. On instinct, the hobbit's eyes snapped shut. Reynard laughed, though it sounded more like a ferocious bark. "Put a single toe out o' line and yeh'll regret it fer the rest of yer life," he continued. "Yeh'll do as yer told when yer told _or else_. Do we understand each other?" Frodo didn't answer. "_I SAID DO WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER_!"

"Yes," croaked Frodo.

"Good," said Reynard. He released the hobbit and rose to his feet, towering over him like a monolith. "Now think o' this as a warnin'." With that said, he gave Frodo an almighty kick in the side with his iron-shod boot. Frodo bit down hard on his tongue, his eyes clenched tightly shut as he fought against crying out. Tears gathered behind his lids as he tasted the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. Reynard gave another barking laugh as he kicked Frodo again – for good measure if nothing else. Then he clomped over to the stairs, plodding up them noisily. Just as he was about to disappear through the door, he turned back and looked down at Frodo.

"I don' wanna hear another sound out of you," he said. Then he went through the door, slamming it shut and locking it behind him.

For perhaps a minute or two, all in the cellar was still and silent. Then there was the tiniest of sniffles as the lonely figure shivered.

A tear rolled down Frodo's cheek.

* * *

Pippin was silent and pacing. If he had been found like this back home in the Great Smials, he would have received worried looks from everyone who passed him until someone (probably his eldest sister, Pearl) asked him what was the matter. But truth be told, Pippin hadn't felt this worried since Merry had come to him all that time ago, telling him that Frodo was going to leave the Shire, '_so keep your eyes open and gather what information you can, as inconspicuously as you can_'.

But as it happened, Pippin was not at home. He was no where near home. And the only people who knew him well enough to realise that he was so dreadfully worried were either asleep because it was very late at night, or out because they too were worried for the very same reasons as the lonely hobbit.

He suddenly stopped pacing and sat himself down heavily in the middle of the hallway. He felt desperately alone. He wasn't used to feeling alone. Usually he had an elder cousin around to envelop him in a comforting hug before asking what was wrong. When he told them, said elder cousin would usually laugh softly, murmuring out a string of reassurances. If Pippin was at Bag End, Frodo would then make him a cup of tea and offer him some cake. If he was at Brandy Hall, Merry would suggest they go and raid the pantries or play a prank on an annoying aunt or cousin, so Pippin could laugh and forget his troubles.

Pippin sighed. Merry was out somewhere in the city and Frodo was… out somewhere _else_ in the city – or so everyone hoped. Pippin had no one with him now to comfort him and tell him that it would be alright. No one to tell him that he was a silly Took and shouldn't get so worked up about nothing…

Not for the first time since the Quest had begun did Pippin realise how very much he loved his two favourite cousins. He had been indescribably jubilant when Frodo had awoken at last in Ithilien. He had missed being ganged up on by him and Merry…

Very suddenly, a new thought penetrated through Pippin's whirlpool of contemplation. He wondered what it had been like for Frodo before he or Merry had been born. Before he had known Sam, and before he had been adopted by Bilbo. Pippin tried to imagine him as a young teenager, wondering about the many passages in Brandy Hall by himself for two years. Pippin knew from Merry and Merry's parents that Frodo hadn't had many friends in Buckland before Merry had been born. It almost broke the tweenager's heart to think of his beloved cousin so alone. Frodo was the most kind, generous, loyal and loving hobbit he knew. How could anyone want to bring him harm? It was incomprehensible! Pippin frowned deeply as he delved deeper into this new train of thought. Why, then, had the Council of Elrond allowed him to become the Ringbearer? Again! There had been an innumerable amount of others present who could have carried the Ring. Why had they let Frodo do it? He had suffered enough already!

And now, when it was all supposed to be over, something had happened to him. Pippin did not doubt now that Frodo had not simply lost his way in the city. No… It was a gut instinct that told the Took otherwise. In the way that all hobbits knew when it was time for the next meal, all hobbits knew when a loved-one was in danger.

It was at that moment that Peregrin Took heard footsteps coming towards him. He hastily got to his feet. His heart was thumping painfully in his chest. Something had changed. Something had gone wrong. He paled as he saw Sam, Legolas and Gimli hurrying closer. In the Elf's arms was Merry.

"What happened?" cried Pippin. He rushed to Legolas, jumping around him like a jack-in-the-box.

"He seemed fine one moment," said Gimli, obviously still bewildered by the situation – whatever it was. "Then he said he felt cold. Next thing I know, he's falling to the ground!"

In moments, Merry was being laid on his bed in his and Pippin's room. Pippin didn't hesitate to climb onto the mattress and sit beside him. Reaching to grasp his cousin's hands, he gave a surprised yelp.

"They're icy cold!" he exclaimed. "As cold as when-"

Pippin abruptly stopped talking. Everyone turned to face him. "As cold as when…" prompted Legolas.

"When I found him in one of the streets of the city," said Pippin slowly. "Right after the battle of the Pelennor fields… After he and Lady Éowyn destroyed the Witch-King."

At the mentioning of that vile menace, Merry's eyes snapped open and he started struggling. Upon realising he was in the company of friends, he became still again.

"Merry what's wrong?" asked Pippin. "Why are you so cold?"

"Something's wrong," whispered Merry. Pippin was dismayed at the intense fear he heard in his cousin's voice. He tried to disguise his own fear.

"Well of course something's wrong you silly Brandybuck!" he chided gently. "Hobbits like yourself shouldn't go around collapsing and going cold for no good reason."

"No," interjected Merry quickly. His eyes were wide, desperate for his cousin to listen and understand. "Something's wrong with Frodo. I think he's hurt."

"What?" cried Sam. "Why, Mr Merry? Where is he?" Merry shook his head, his brows furrowed as if to concentrate.

"I don't know Sam," he said. "I can just feel it. He's in trouble, and he's been hurt. We _have_ to help him."

There was a silence as those present took this in. No one could find an answer to such a statement. Eventually Legolas frowned in concern at the ailing hobbit.

"Merry you're shivering," he said. "I think we should get Aragorn to have a look at you."

"I'm fine," protested Merry. "We don't have time for this! We have to find Frodo!"

"How do you know that Frodo is still missing though?" reasoned the Elf. "Gandalf may have found him."

"He hasn't!" exclaimed Merry. "I just know it! You have to believe me!"

"_What_ is going on?"

As one the group looked to the doorway. There stood Gandalf and a slightly dishevelled Aragorn.

"Strider!" cried Merry, sitting up quickly. "You have to help! Frodo's-"

"Hush…" soothed Aragorn. He came into the room and sat on the edge of Merry's bed. "Gandalf has told me of what has happened. And it will be dealt with – I can assure you. But at the moment I am more concerned about why you have taken ill so suddenly."

Before Merry could say another word, Aragorn rested a hand on the hobbit's forehead. His temperature felt strangely normal. He allowed himself a small frown before he held Merry's hands. His frown deepened.

"Merry," said the King. "Would you happen to know why your hands are touched with the Black Breath – and the rest of you is not?"

Gandalf, who had been silent since his arrival, chose to step forward then. "I think I may know the answer," he said. He looked down at Merry intently. "Meriadoc, how is your left shoulder?"

"It aches," said Merry softly.

"And you say that you think Frodo is hurt?" continued Gandalf. The hobbit nodded. "Aragorn, it is my understanding that Frodo and Merry share a strange and unique connection. A connection harboured by their previous dealings with the Nazgûl."

"_What_?" exclaimed Pippin. He clutched his cousin's hand tighter.

"Frodo was stabbed in the left shoulder by the Witch-King of Angmar," said Gandalf. "Merry stabbed the Witch-King himself at the Pelennor Fields. Both hobbits were nearly consequently killed. But I believe it is because of this that they are able to feel when the other is suffering pain – perhaps only to a certain degree."

"So you think that Frodo feels cold and his left shoulder aches?" said Aragorn slowly.

"Not necessarily those ailments," answered Gandalf. "Those could simply be the areas affected on Merry's part as the arms and shoulder played important parts in the bodies' histories with the Witch-King."

"Then in all likelihood," mused Aragorn. "Lady Éowyn should be suffering in a similar way."

"But the Lady Éowyn is not Frodo's cousin," said Gandalf.

There was another silence. Pippin looked from Aragorn to Gandalf to Merry. The latter still looked restless. "All this is very good," he said impatiently. "But are we going to look for Frodo or not?"

Gandalf sighed deeply, the situation obviously paining him. "I think we had best wait until morning before we renew the search," he said heavily. "This is a big city – Frodo could be anywhere. We will enlist the help of others when it is light."

"You should all get some rest now," added Aragorn. "We will be of no help to Frodo if we're half asleep when we must begin the day's search."

Though they could see the truth in this, the hobbits were still reluctant. Sam was on the verge of tears. His Mr Frodo was hurt and lost somewhere in this big city. What if he needed Sam's help? Sam had barely left his side in six months. He didn't feel that this should be the time to break that habit.

* * *

Desmond was grinning like a maniac as he made his way back to the house where he had left Reynard and the halfling. In an old bag he carried what he had managed to scrounge off of some old mates who owed him a favour or two. All bad feelings were gone now that everything was set. All they had to do now was get the rat to write the letter, send the letter to the King and wait.

He chuckled to himself as he bounded up the front steps to the house. He was in a _very_ good mood at the moment. On the top step he paused and turned to look up at the sky. In the east the sun was rising, kissing the distant clouds with a glorious pink and orange blush. Dawn had come at last. But it looked like they were in for a magnificent storm in a couple of days.

Without another thought, Desmond turned into the house, closing and locking the door firmly behind him. He entered a very stingy and miserable looking kitchen where Reynard was slicing up some bread, cheese and an apple.

"What yeh doin'?" asked Desmond as he put his old bag on one of the benches. Reynard didn't look up from his task.

"Preparing," he answered.

"Fer what?"

Reynard's lips curled into a smile. "Ter teach the rat another lesson," he said.

"_Another_?" noted Desmond. "So 'e misbehaved did 'e?"

"That 'e did," concurred Reynard. "I gave 'im a little somethin' ter think about. Dun think it's gonna be enough though… Which is why 'e's not gettin' any food or drink."

"So's that why yer getting out the bread, cheese and apples?" said Desmond, folding his arms and frowning.

"Course not!" snapped Reynard. "I'm gonna rub it in a bit, aren't I. Show 'im what 'e's missin' out on."

"Not much," muttered Desmond.

"It'll work," said Reynard. "Trust me."

"Alright," sighed Desmond. He suddenly smiled with a malicious air as he casually rummaged through the old bag. His smile turned to a grin as he produced a whip. "Let's see if this'll help as well."

Reynard regarded the whip with glinting eyes. "Yeh know what, Des?" he said. "I think that might jus' do the trick. What else yeh got in that bag?"

* * *

Though he would never show it physically, Gandalf was getting anxious. For perhaps the last three or four hours he had remained closed in his room, seeking Frodo's flame with his mind. Though he was now distanced from distractions, he still had difficulties. He had mentally inspected the fourth and fifth circles and was about to go on to the sixth when he paused.

If Frodo was lost, surely by now he would have found someone who could have directed him to the gates leading up to the next circle? After all, he had been missing for almost six hours now. Once at the gates it wouldn't have taken much to ask one of the guards to direct him up to the citadel. Even if it was a bit of a blow to his pride, Frodo was not stupid and not without judgement. He knew more often than not when it was time to give up or ask for assistance.

Then that could only mean that Frodo was in fact _not_ lost, but… what? Taken? Kidnapped? Had he had a run in with some more unsavoury characters? Was he even now perhaps lying in a dark alley, hurt and alone, unable to get help?

Gandalf frowned, disturbed at the direction these possibilities were heading. After witnessing the councils between the delegations of Men, he wouldn't put it past anyone in the city to do such a thing. After the attack from Mordor, the lower circles particularly had been very much out of control. It was every man for himself down there. If that meant somehow obtaining money from a small hobbit, they wouldn't hesitate. Especially if the hobbit was an Elf-friend, friend of the King and White Wizard and renowned throughout all the lands in the west.

Gandalf's eyes snapped open and his thoughts and body froze in horror.

TBC

_A/N: Hey all! I'm going on holiday for just over a week, so I'm not sure when I'll next be able to update. But please keep reviewing!!! :D_

_hush1630 – I'm trying to update as fast as possible! Hehehe. But I'm not sure if I'll be able to get the next chapter to you for a bit. See above note… But thank you very much for your kind words! It's very encouraging :) Lol, and tell you're friend I am terribly, terribly sorry! But please restrain her from killing me if you can! Hehehe._

_Iorhael – You'll just have to wait and find out what happens next my friend! And don't worry, plenty more defiance coming up! :D_

_Kaewi – Thank you very much! hugs I've been thinking about writing a companion piece later. I've actually got a few more fics that I'd like to write soon, so look out! Hehehe. Hope things were made a bit clearer for you in this chapter. :) And you'll soon see some more of Desmond's supplies…_

_lilpip__ – You'll soon see more on what happens to Frodo. Unfortunately it's not gonna be too nice… Poor little hobbit!_

_rabidsamfan__ – lol. Thank you! I think we're all waiting for those two to get what's due to them. :D_

_Stephanie – You're welcome! And thank you very much for the compliments! Glad you're enjoying it. :) Desmond and Reynard are taking a VERY big gamble indeed! But right now no one knows where in the city they are , so they're safe for the moment… Let's hope they're not safe for too much longer._


	7. Searching for Answers

**_Every Man for Himself_**

****

_Disclaimer: Don't own Lord of the Rings. Am not making a profit out of this. _

**Chapter 7: Searching for Answers**

_4 May 3019 – Morning_

"Meriadoc Brandybuck you are _not_ getting out of that bed!"

If the circumstances hadn't been so dire, Aragorn might have smiled to hear Pippin's light voice (now sounding surprisingly stern) piping through the walls. The Man shook his head and knocked on the door. For a moment there was silence from within before he found his eyebrows rising higher and higher at the cacophony of noise he heard. Stray squawks and yelps resonated about the apartment as he could only imagine the two cousins were wrestling. At last, the door opened, and a suspiciously tousled Pippin looked up at him with the most innocent expression Aragorn had ever witnessed. The King wisely opted to not question the Took, and went straight to Merry's bed. Even before he had formed the words, the bed-ridden hobbit answered him with all the resolute his stubborn self possessed.

"I feel fine."

"Indeed?" said Aragorn. "Let us determine if you actually _are_ fine. I have recently learnt that in terms of health, hobbits seem to lack in accurate self-judgement."

"Honestly," protested Merry. "I feel perfectly fine!"

But Aragorn would not be swayed. He felt the hobbit's temperature, noting that he was a tad over-warm. But that was probably due to whatever had occurred before the King had been permitted entrance to the room. He felt Merry's pulse, examined his eyes, felt his hands and asked him to rotate his wrists, elbows and shoulders slowly in both directions.

"You seem to be fairing well enough at present," concluded Aragorn. He quickly quelled Merry with a stern frown as the hobbit moved to get out of bed. "However," he continued. "I do not want you to overtax yourself. You are not to join in the search today."

* * *

Frodo could not begin to fathom how he had managed to fall asleep. But he awoke feeling decidedly stiff, uncomfortable, sore and very cold – it turned out that a part of him was still lying in that puddle.

For a few moments he lay in stillness as his mind went over the events of the previous night. He could barely believe it had all happened. He would still think he was dreaming if not for the violent shiver that wracked his form. He stifled a groan at the fleeting flare of general pain before he contemplated shifting himself out of the offending puddle. Much to his disappointment (and mild disgust), the effort left him panting in fatigue. But at least he was no longer getting progressively more soaked by the minute.

He allowed himself a small smile of victory for accomplishing this – though it was brief. Outside, a cloud shifted and a rather strong beam of sunlight shot through a previously undetected window, high up in the wall closest to him. This beat on his face with an unpleasant intensity of heat and light. After spending so long in the dark, his eyes were thoroughly assaulted.

Now, he did groan. He could have screamed out in the frustration of it all. Why could he never just be left in peace? If it was not one thing giving him grief, it was another. In the Shire he was always gossiped about – hobbits asking him why did he live alone? Why had he moved in with Bilbo all those years ago? Why wasn't he married?

Though the endless stream of gossip and questions had always vexed him, he felt that now he would be prepared to sacrifice almost anything he owned to exchange what he was suffering now for that. His eyes closed for a moment, so heavy were they with a sudden grief and despair. He just wanted to go back home. Was that too much to ask for?

While part of him mellowed in self-pity, another part was seething in indignation and barely concealed fury. He still didn't know exactly what it was these Men wanted him for, but he did not doubt that it was for no good purpose. In that case, he might do well to think of an escape plan…

* * *

To say the least, Faramir was shocked as Aragorn recounted to him the events of the previous night. The Steward could hardly believe that such corruption still existed in Minas Tirith. Did the city not now hold two victories against Mordor? Had not the Men of Gondor and its allies just united together to thwart the Enemy? Had they not succeeded in bringing down the Lord of the Rings? If so much good had been done, then how could the same people who had done it still commit such evil? These were supposed to be days of peace!

As Aragorn gave his orders to Faramir, the Steward bowed and left to gather the more trustworthy soldiers in the service of Gondor. He agreed with his Lord that word of the missing hobbit could not be allowed to travel too far. If it turned out that so many of the people were indeed corrupted as such, they would not hesitate to use the situation to their advantage.

Spurred by this new thought, Faramir quickened his steps.

* * *

"I like the look o' this," said Reynard. He was holding a heavy wooden cane. It wasn't long enough for him to use as a walking stick, but it was the perfect size for beating small halfling sized backs.

"Check this out," said Desmond. From the old bag he drew out a small glass bottle containing a clear liquid. Reynard put the cane down and took the bottle in his hand, holding it up to the light streaming in from the window above the kitchen sink.

"Wha' is it?" he asked.

"A clever little potion I got from ol' Valron," said Desmond. "A whiff o' this stuff and yer out like a candle in the wind. Should come in handy if the little 'un gets too difficult."

Reynard grinned and put the bottle down on the table where he currently sat. He rummaged some more in the bag before he pulled out a carefully covered jar with an odd looking ooze inside of it. The ooze was semitransparent with a strange yellow-green tinge to it. He looked at it closer, pulling a face of revulsion.

"What's _that_?" he asked.

"Ah," said Desmond. "Yeh wanna be careful wi' that. I managed ta scam it off one o' them Haradrim as is hidin' out at the bottom of Mavril's inn. The bloke said it was a mix of some o' the most potent toxins in the world. It's got the venom of snakes, spiders, rats and those scorpion things they get down south. Also got plenty of poisonous plants mixed up in it. I know belladonna's one of 'em."

"What did yeh get it for?" asked Reynard. "We're not gonna kill the halflin' are we?"

"Not if we can help it," said Desmond. "This stuff works real slow. The bloke said some o' the guards down south use it ter torture their prisoners."

"How long do it take ter kill?" asked Reynard curiously.

"Can take up ter five days on a big fella," answered Desmond. "It's pain like yeh'd never believe."

"That halflin' ain't a big fella, Des," said Reynard. "How long would this stuff take ter finish 'im?"

"Dunno," said Desmond thoughtfully. "Maybe three or four days. Maybe less. There's only one way ter find out."

"Yeah…" said Reynard slowly. He was frowning, as if deep in thought. He stared hard at the ooze. "Hey Des?" he continued after a few moments. "How long would yeh say we'd have ter wait after we send the letter before we get rid of the halflin' and get our money?"

"Depends," said Desmond with a shrug. "I guess we'd need ter say in the letter."

"If we needed ta," continued Reynard. "We could give the halflin' this stuff just before we hand 'im over ter the King. Only if we needed ta though." He said the last hurriedly, uncertain as to how his partner would react.

"I've bin thinking we might have ter do just that," said Desmond. "After all, the rat's seen our faces an' knows our names. What's the good of gettin' all that money if we get caught by them guards the next day?"

"We're gonna have ta plan this out real careful," said Reynard in dismay as the full weight of realisation fell on him. Desmond rolled his eyes and whacked him on the back of his head.

"What's wrong with yeh?" he said. "Didn't yeh hear a word I said when I was tellin' yeh 'bout me plan? Good grief Rey! Yer thicker than a stone wall!" Reynard swatted his hand impatiently.

"Whatever," he said. "But about this poison stuff – are we gonna use it on the halflin' or not?"

"Well that depends," said Desmond slowly.

"On what?"

"On how good 'e behaves."

"Speakin' of behaviour," said Reynard. "I'd say he'd be wakin' up about now."

"Let's pay 'im a little visit then shall we?" said Desmond with a devilish grin. "You get the food."

* * *

It was perhaps another two hours before Frodo found himself in company again. It was the click of the lock opening that first alerted him. His head snapped around to face the doorway, after spending the last few hours staring at the lonely window. He jerked involuntarily as the door burst open and rebounded off the wall behind it. As the forms of Desmond and Reynard appeared in his vision, he quickly schooled his face into a neutral expression. It was Desmond who reached him first. The Man stooped over Frodo and grabbed the front of his shirt with one hand, lifting his torso several inches off the ground. Frodo couldn't see what he clasped in the other hand.

"Rey tells me that yeh've been disobedient," he snarled fiercely. "'E said that you was bein' disrespectful."

Frodo said nothing. He diverted his gaze from the man's unsightly features and stared up at the grubby ceiling. Infuriated by the lack of response he received, Desmond gave the hobbit a rough shake.

"Well?" he boomed. "What do yeh have ter say!"

Frodo blinked lazily, still staring up at the ceiling as though he found it most fascinating. He began silently counting the patches of mould that had accumulated on the stone.

Desmond and Reynard exchanged looks and came to a silent agreement. The former let out a low growl like a wolf and brought Frodo's face closer to his own. Frodo looked back at the Man, unable to disguise his disgust at the stink of Desmond's breath.

"Fine then," hissed Desmond. "Have it yer own way. Yeh don't wanna talk? Then we'll make yeh squeal."

For a moment Frodo's brows furrowed in confusion. Desmond let go of his shirt, letting him fall back to the ground. Before he knew what was happening, Reynard was putting down the tray he had been carrying and was drawing out the filthy dagger in his belt. While Desmond stood up, stretching his arms and cracking his fingers, Reynard severed the ropes binding Frodo's hands together. The hobbit's eyes widened in amazement and he looked from Man to Man, wondering what they were going to do. Desmond continued to crack his fingers and knuckles, a look of deep satisfaction on his face.

Meanwhile, Reynard dragged Frodo over to one of the empty wine shelves. The shelves comprised of rows and columns of holes cut from sheets of wood. The holes were big enough in circumference to hold individual bottles of wine. Reynard now stretched Frodo's arms out and tied his wrists to the holes. Agony ripped through the hobbit's body at this new position after being so cramped for so long. But not a sound would he make. He knew it would only make his captors laugh with a perverted glee that their sport went well. He would not give them any satisfaction.

But through the pain, he did wonder why his back was exposed to them and his front was not. Less than a heartbeat later realisation struck him like a sword slicing through his heart. Desperately he struggled against the ropes, though he knew it was futile.

Seeing this, Desmond laughed. "It's no use strugglin', little rat," he said. "Yer gonna get what's due to yeh." With that said, he motioned for Reynard to move out of the way. Then he unwound the whip in his hands and let it crack. It struck Frodo across the back, drawing a long thin line of blood from his flesh. The hobbit shuddered in pain, but did not give voice to his anguish and humility.

Desmond dealt him lash after lash. Blood filled Frodo's mouth as he bit down on his tongue, suppressing himself from screaming out in torture. He wanted to gag. He wanted to cry, to run… but he couldn't. He wouldn't. There was a small piece deep inside of him that told him he deserved what he got. This was his punishment. His punishment for failing at the end of all things, to do what he had sworn to finish…

As the whip beat at his back again and again, drawing more and more blood, he closed his eyes. Though he knew he didn't deserve it, he sent a small plea up to the Valar, hoping against hope that someone was listening. He prayed that his torment would end soon.

* * *

Perhaps, thought Merry, it was a good thing that he was confined to his bed at the moment. Very suddenly his body had been overtaken by unsettling tremors. He curled up underneath his covers, glad that for the time being he was alone. He did not like to think how the others would react to this. They were worried enough as it was. Even now they were all out in the city, searching high and low for Frodo. Guards of the citadel had been summoned to aid in the search. At Pippin's request, Beregond had been included in this search party, despite that he was no longer a soldier of the city. Merry had even heard that Faramir and Éomer had gone out. The hobbit only wished that he could too.

Another shudder stole through him, making him bury himself deeper in his blankets. He closed his eyes. Perhaps sleep would give him some peace from this torment. For he did not know how long he could stand to do nothing while he knew that his cousin suffered. But just as sleep was taking him in its gentle embrace, he was disturbed by a soft knock on the door.

Merry sat up with a start as the doorknob turned. His shock was increased dramatically when he saw who stood before him.

"Lady Éowyn!" he managed to choke. "What… What are you doing here?"

Éowyn smiled warmly and closed the door carefully behind her. She made her way to a convenient chair beside Merry's bed and sat down in it.

"I came to see you of course," she said in amusement. "I heard that you were feeling unwell and thought you might like some company."

Suddenly remembering exactly who he was speaking with, Merry bowed his head, a light blush creeping up his face. "Your company is very welcome, my lady," he said. "But I do not wish to keep you. Surely you must have other matters to attend to more important than visiting a hobbit confined to his bed?"

Éowyn laughed, and the sound was like a gentle morning shower on a spring morning. "My dear friend," she said. "It so happens that _you_ are an important matter to attend to, as you put it. Besides, I feel somewhat guilty for not seeing more of you before now. I have missed your company."

"You have been busy with other things," said Merry dismissively. He paused and gave a sheepish grin. "Lord Faramir won't mind being called a thing will he?"

Again Éowyn laughed, her own cheeks blossoming with a pink tinge. Merry wondered how such a simple entity as laughter could have such wondrous and beauteous effects. Already he was feeling a little better. Éowyn obviously was.

For some time the two sat and talked companionably. But though Merry himself laughed, he could not completely ignore the niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach that warned him of something still greatly amiss. When Éowyn at last took her leave, Merry fell back heavily on his pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

"Where are you, Frodo?" he muttered to the rich carvings in the stone above him.

* * *

In the early afternoon, the searchers began to trickle back to the citadel in twos and threes. They all reported the same thing – they could not find Frodo on the streets, in any shops or in any public place for that matter. Aragorn had sighed heavily. This could only mean that Frodo was in a civilian's house. Considering how long he must have been there now, Aragorn did not now doubt that Frodo was being held there against his will.

But what to do now? The initial answer of course was to search every house in the city. But it wouldn't be too hard to hide Frodo elsewhere until the searchers had departed. So _then_ what?

Aragorn dismissed the guards who bowed themselves out. The Fellowship and Faramir and Éomer now stood in a silent circle. Aragorn looked around at them. They all wore identical looks of worry. Sam looked like he was ready to collapse. For him it was like reliving the pain and horror of Cirith Ungol all over again. And if his Mr Frodo had to now endure anything like what those orcs had put him through, Sam didn't know if his master would be able to survive it. He didn't know if he could stand it himself.

But while the gathered all looked worried, there was also a certain degree of guilt hanging in the air. They were a fellowship after all, sworn to protect the Ringbearer. And the Ringbearer had disappeared.

* * *

At last, at long last, Desmond wound the whip up, stuffing it in a pocket. Frodo almost sobbed in relief. His back felt like it was on fire. Now it was littered with angry red streaks, blood slowly dripping down his skin until it was soaked up by his shirt.

As Reynard untied Frodo's wrists from the wine shelves, the hobbit found himself sinking to the ground, as limp as a boned fish. The Men laughed, finding the display of weakness by this creature amusing. Frodo could not have cared less. He felt so wretched and alone. All he wanted to do right then was curl up in a dark corner somewhere and go to sleep.

Reynard walked up to him, the tray once more in his hands. He sneered down at Frodo, looking very pleased with himself.

"Yeh see this, halflin'?" he said. He shoved the tray and its contents under Frodo's nose, forcing him to take in the sight of bread, cheese, an apple and a glass of water. Despite that in his mind, Frodo had had too much to eat and drink the previous night, Frodo suddenly realised that he was starting to get hungry. The light in his eyes abruptly changed to look at the food with longing.

"This was gonna be yer breakfast," hissed Reynard. "But little rats who don't do as they're told get nothin'." Reynard laughed cruelly as Frodo's face went several shades paler. He took a great delight in letting the contents of the tray clatter to the ground. With a deliberate slowness and forcefulness, he stomped on the food (and crockery) with his boot, turning it into a soiled mash on the grimy stone floor.

The Men roared with laughter before clamouring up the stairs. Reynard went through the door, but Desmond paused on the top of the stairs and turned back to look at Frodo.

"Let that be a lesson to yeh," he growled. "We take disrespect from no one. You misbehave again, and yeh'll receive a punishment ten times worse."

The door slammed shut and was locked. For some moments, Frodo was still. Then suddenly he shuddered with cold, and erupted into a fit of coughing. This was just great. Now he was falling ill. He heaved a mental sigh and let his eyes wonder up to gaze at the window. He wondered if it was locked. He wondered if he would be able to climb up to it. He wondered if it would open.

For a long time he stared at the window with these questions and many more buzzing around his head. He carefully thought about his situation – he was being held captive by two Men. For what reason, he still did not know. But it couldn't be anything good. It would be best if he could escape as soon as possible.

He looked to the door, wondering how long it would be before Desmond or Reynard came down to check on him again. He looked back up at the window. The ceiling of the cellar was relatively low. Both Men had only just been able to stand up without having to stoop.

He frowned up at the window. It was rather small and hemispherical. With luck, Frodo might just be able to squeeze through it. That is, if he could even climb up to it. If he had been a tweenager and in this situation, he would have had no trouble performing the acrobatics required to climb up and through the window. After all, he had been one of the best tree-climbers in the Shire.

But as it was, Frodo was fifty years old with only nine fingers, was falling ill, was hungry, thirsty, tired, in a great deal of pain, and his legs were bound. He paused at this thought, and looked down at himself.

Yes… his _feet_ were tied. But his hands were not.

TBC

_A/N: Well, I'm back! :D Almost every spare minute I had was spent working on this chapter and the next (which is coming along nicely btw), so I hope you all enjoy it. Thanks Lexi for going over this with me. You're the best! Hehehe._

_Breon__ Briarwood – Hahahaha, chant away! :D Thank you for your encouragement and compliments. It's really spurring me on. _

_Elijahs-gurl__ – Thank you very much! I'll update for you as quickly as I can…:)_

_heartofahobbit__ – You are very right. Things aren't too bright and happy in either world. But concerning Middle-Earth, once the people of Gondor get used to having a king, and once Aragorn becomes more comfortable with his position in society, things should hopefully get better. If only the same could happen for our world. But I think when we look at the relationships between the Fellowship and other characters, we see that there "is some good in this world… and it's worth fighting for." And I think that after all he has been through, Frodo is starting to appreciate that more. He ain't going down without a fight! Hehehe. I say let the spirit live on!_

_hush1630 – More is coming up, hopefully soon. Now that the story's moving on a bit now, the chapters will get longer, as it's taking longer for me to get to the point, lol. Sorry to hear that your friend is using you as a punch-bag though. Perhaps you should set a certain gardener on her… ;)_

_Kaewi__ – Glad that questions have been answered! :D And I like to put in a bit of humour now and then. I find that nothing but angst can be a bit too much and too… heavy sometimes. And if/when Sam catches up with Frodo, he is going to have his arms full indeed with looking after our poor hobbit. Btw, I had a GREAT time on my holiday! Hehehe. :D_

_rabidsamfan__ – Hahahaha. I don't think Aragorn would be too happy with that plan of action! Though usually I would agree heartily with you if it means finding Frodo sooner. And hold that thought about Sam searching… more on that in the next chapter. ;)_

_Stephanie – Lol, I hope this update is 'all the better', hehehe. And you could be right. But at the moment, it is proving to be more of a bane to Merry that he suffers when poor Frodo does. Let's see if that might change in the future… And I hope your curiosity of the bag's contents is now satisfied. Though considering how awful those things are, perhaps it would have been better not to have known…_

_Tarquin__ the Proud – Thank you very much! I am truly flattered! blushes :D Sorry I didn't provide you with Gandalf's specific reaction to Legolas's drunken state – but he was in a bad mood at everyone at the time… and Sam's outburst would have distracted him greatly. But there's more talk about drunk Elves in chapter eight, so keep a look out!_


	8. The Fugitive

**_Every Man for Himself_**

****

_Disclaimer: Lord of the Ring's just ain't mine. :(_

**Chapter 8: The Fugitive**

_4 May 3019 – Sunset_

The hours between morning and afternoon had passed by painfully slowly. Merry had been allowed to get up after lunch, though from time to time his muscles cramped in a most annoying way. Legolas and Gimli, along with some soldiers, went out into the city again to search for the missing Ringbearer, but by this time, no one held much hope of finding him without clues or information of his whereabouts. Gandalf remained ever locked in his room, desperately seeking his friend using his own method. The hobbits remained with Aragorn, Faramir, Éomer and Éowyn in the throne room. Until the third hour after midday, Pippin sat dejectedly on the ground with his chin cupped in a hand before he had to return to his duties as a knight of Gondor. Poor Samwise alternated between pacing around the hall and sitting next to Merry and Pippin. He had desperately wanted to go out with Legolas and Gimli, but had been forbidden. He would only have been left behind in the great pace that the two would have been going.

Merry also felt restless. He too had wanted to search for Frodo himself and had met the same rejection as Sam. But he seemed to feel a different sort of agitation. Yes, he wanted to do something more useful than sitting around waiting for something to happen. But he also felt keenly a strange desire to escape…

* * *

"Hey, Des?"

"What?"

"I've bin thinkin'…"

"Didn' know yeh could."

"Well I can, alrigh'!… I've bin thinkin' 'bout this plan of yers."

"What 'bout it?"

"When are we actually gonna get the halflin' ter write the ransom note?"

"Soon. Tomorrow maybe. Give that king up there long enough ta start worryin' 'bout his little friend. But not long enough for them guards ter find us down 'ere."

"Oh. Right then… What we gonna put in the letter?"

"Our demands."

"Yeah – and what would they be?"

"Simple. If they want the halflin' back and alive, then they'll have ter give us gold."

"I know that part. But what else? I mean – how _much_ gold? When are we gonna give he halflin' back? Where we gonna do the exchange? _How_ are we gonna do it? We jus' gonna dump 'im somewhere and let 'em pick 'im up, them leavin' the gold behind? Or do we bring 'im up ter the cit'del or somethin'?"

There was a long pause as Desmond considered the possibilities. He had spent many long hours mulling this over in his head before now, but had never come to a clear conclusion.

"Dunno," he said at last. He scratched at his bristly chin distractedly while staring at the bare table in which he sat at. "I could kill for an ale about now," he announced. Even as he spoke the sky darkened as the sun proceeded its great descent into the horizon.

"Yeah," agreed Reynard, nodding slowly. "An ale _would_ be good." A silly grin played on his features, earning him a whack on the head from Desmond.

"Wipe that stupid look off yer mug," he grumbled. "Yeh jus' wanna goggle at Arlyn again."

"So what if I do?" snapped Reynard, his grin being replaced by a frown. "I'm entitled ter do as much."

"Not when we've got work ter do," replied Desmond. "The ale's ter help us think – not ter get women."

"Can't we do both?"

"NO!"

"Alright, alright!" said Reynard quickly, holding his hands up defensively. He got to his feet, stretching his arms out in front of him. "We goin' then?"

Desmond remained seated for another moment before standing up himself. Without another thought or word, the two went to the front hall of the small house, picked up their cloaks and went out the front door.

* * *

"Aragorn! Where is Aragorn?"

The soldiers standing guard outside the doors to the throne room looked up in astonishment at the hurried arrival of Legolas and Gimli. Without pausing, the Dwarf pulled at the doors, trying vainly to open them though they were locked.

"Sir!" cried the guard in charge. "I am afraid you may not enter at present. The King is feasting in the dining hall. He wishes not to be-"

The Elf and Dwarf did not wait another moment before they were racing off with all speed towards the aforementioned hall. The guards rushed after them, shouting protests all the while, heeded by neither. As they ran, other passing guards joined in the chase, but could not hope to match the speed in which the two were sprinting.

More guards were positioned at the doors to the dining hall. They straightened up upon seeing the pursuit the two had attracted.

"You cannot pass through these doors!" said one of the soldiers. A very uncharacteristic look of frustration crossed Legolas' features. He drew himself up to his full height, towering over the guards on duty.

"I have important inform-"

"Legolas! Gimli!"

The Elf abruptly stopped in the middle of his speech and turned (almost desperately) towards the all too familiar lilting voice of one Peregrin Took.

"Pippin!" he exclaimed. "We must gain entry into the hall beyond! We have important information for the King that cannot wait!"

Knowing fully what Legolas must be referring too, Pippin's eyes widened and he turned to his fellow guards, glaring at them with his hands on his hips.

"You heard him!" he said. "_MOVE_!"

"But Peregrin-"

"I'll take responsibility if the King gets angry," said Pippin impatiently. The doors to the dining hall were suddenly unbarred and opened by the hobbit. Every face in the hall turned to him as he entered and bowed to Aragorn who had risen to his feet, a frown on his features. On seeing who stood behind Pippin, the King beckoned all three into the hall, moving towards them. They huddled just out of earshot from those seated at the tables and standing at the doors. Unnoticed for the moment, Pippin remained by Gimli's side, listening carefully to the words Legolas currently told.

"We were asking shop owners in the fourth circle if they had seen Frodo since last night. We had no luck until we came closer to the gates leading up to the fifth circle. One woman owning a stall said she had a customer very late in the night that fit the description we gave. The woman said he didn't buy anything, was merely browsing at leisure. He was there for several minutes before he left. Almost as soon as he had turned away from her stall two men approached him. She said they were wearing dark cloaks, but their hoods were down. Both men were quite tall, though one was taller than the other. The taller had dark hair that was very unkempt. The shorter had lighter, reddish-brown hair, as equally bedraggled as the other. They exchanged words with this woman's customer, all the while leading him towards a dark alley nearby. She said that she saw none of the three come out of that alley again."

"So what you are saying," said Aragorn slowly. "Is that two tall men took someone fitting a description of Frodo into a dark alley late last night." Aragorn shook his head. "Legolas, almost every fully grown man in this city is tall with dark or reddish-brown hair."

"That's not all though," said Gimli. "We went to the inn again to ask about the two men – see if we could find out who they were. We knew it was a long shot, but we had to try. Two barmaids said that last night they had a couple of customers who came in together. One was dark and one lighter, the lighter being a bit shorter. They both wore dark cloaks. The barmaids said that unfortunately the two were regulars. They often give the lasses a bit of trouble – be she patron or employee."

"Is that it?" asked Aragorn, his voice and expression a mixture of eagerness and impatience. "Did you get no more information about them?"

"Of course we did!" grumbled Gimli, annoyed that he was not being permitted to come to the point in his own time. He jabbed a thumb at Legolas. "The way pointy-ears here was charming those barmaids, we could've gotten their life stories."

"I resent that," said Legolas coolly, sparing a moment to glare at Gimli before turning his attention back to Aragorn. "The two men are more commonly known as Des and Rey. One of the barmaids said that Rey was talking to her last night, telling her that Des had been formulating some sort of master plan that would make them rich. As Rey was rather intoxicated by that point, she dismissed it. But she said just now that she wouldn't be surprised if the two were planning something. Apparently they're well known to cause disruption in the lower circles of the city."

There was a pause as Aragorn let all of this information settle in. Though it certainly merited further investigation, he could not just send out guards to find these Des and Rey characters and have them arrested on the spot. He would have to find out where they lived, if they actually _had_ taken Frodo, and if so, then _why_.

"Alright," he said at last. "The information is much appreciated. I will have to think over this longer. But please, sit down and eat with us. Both of you must be hungry after your efforts today."

Gimli eagerly accepted this invitation and promptly sat himself down at the end of the main table. Legolas followed with more composition, though he too was keen to relax a little and enjoy a good meal. Aragorn returned to his seat at the head of the table. As he delved once more into his meal, he glanced over at Gandalf on his left.

"You heard what they had to say?" asked Aragorn in a low voice, though he already knew the answer. Gandalf nodded.

"Yes," he said. "I am intrigued by this 'master plan' that was spoken of."

"Legolas said the barmaid dismissed it."

"When drunk, most men tend to reveal things they'd rather not, as opposed to making something up. Take Legolas for example."

"Legolas got drunk?" Aragorn's eyes darted to the end of the table where the Prince of Mirkwood was exchanging soft words with Prince Imrahil who also dined in the hall that evening. Gandalf chuckled softly, shaking his head with mirth.

"My friend," he said. "Like with hobbits, never assume that you know all there is to know about Elves. Just because you lived in Elrond's house for a time does not mean that you are all knowing about that race."

"I confess," said Aragorn. "I knew not that Elves were able to get drunk. The inhabitants of Rivendell did well in keeping _that_ fact from my knowledge."

"Knowing what you were like when you were younger," said Gandalf. "It was probably a very good thing they did. But Elves can get drunk if they choose. Often they do not for obvious reasons, but from time to time they too like to have some fun. Though I think in this case our immortal friend had some heavy influence from certain young miscreants who shall remain unnamed."

"Why does that not surprise me?" said the King with an amused smile. He suddenly frowned thoughtfully. "Legolas drunk…" he murmured. "That would have been an interesting sight to behold." Gandalf snorted, earning him an intrigued look from Aragorn.

"Not when one is seeking some peace after a long day." Aragorn's frown deepened.

"But he seemed fine when you woke me up," he said.

"Fortunately he was able to recognise the seriousness of the situation when we discovered Frodo's disappearance," said Gandalf. "Elves are also able to choose when to become sober again."

"Now that hardly seems fair," Aragorn shook his head before sobering again himself. "We are avoiding the point," he said with the merest hint of a sigh. "You think that this master plan has something to do with Frodo, if these men did take him?"

"It is viable."

"You think it is worth looking in to." It was not a question but a statement from the one who knew the wizard so well.

"I think that any leads on Frodo's whereabouts should be further investigated. No one has seen nor heard anything of him since last night." Aragorn sighed.

"I hope he is alright," he said softly, eyes turned downwards at his unfinished meal. "I do not relish the thought of him being so vulnerable in the hands of two Men."

"He _is_ capable of defending himself you know," reminded Gandalf. Aragorn nodded quickly, eyes once more meeting the wizard's.

"I have not forgotten," he said. "But how long can an unarmed, convalescing hobbit survive against two fully grown brutes approximately three times the size of himself?"

Gandalf could not respond. He only bowed his head, eyes tightly shut. He would rather not dwell on the answer to that question; it's answer being too heart-rending when he thought of the bright-eyed, fun-loving tweenager he had met all those years ago, before any of this mess had occurred.

* * *

The three hobbits sitting further down the table sat in silence for a few moments before Samwise looked up at the other two. Pippin had just relayed to him and Merry the news that Gimli and Legolas had brought after the three had accidentally-on-purpose eavesdropped on the conversation between Aragorn and Gandalf.

"I don't like this," announced Sam bluntly. "Not one bit."

"None of us do, Sam," said Merry with a dejected sigh.

"We have to do something, Mr Merry," continued the steadfast gardener.

"What can _we_ do though?" asked Pippin miserably, his head leaning heavily on a hand whose elbow that had found its way to the tabletop.

"We have to keep looking for him," said Sam determinedly. "I'm not going to wait around for news when Mr Frodo needs me."

"Well said, Sam," agreed Merry. He paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. "You know," he continued. "I think it's time we did things our way again."

"What do you mean?" asked Pippin, sitting up straight again as he puzzled over his cousin's words.

"We've been following the ways of the Big Folk long enough I think," said Merry. Hard determination was setting in his features and he looked upon his companions with eyes alight with resolve. "Ever since this Quest began we've been doing things more like they do – all this fighting and such. Now look where it's got us."

"Merry you're making no sense," said Pippin frankly. Merry rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"I think that if we're going to find Frodo," he said. "We're going to have to do it our own way."

"And what way would that be?" asked Pippin.

"Well," continued the Brandybuck, his quick mind thinking logically. "We have a description of these two Men, and we know their names. We also know that they're regulars at the inn we went to last night, and that the barmaids know who they are."

"And how do we come in to this?" asked Pippin with a hint of impatience.

"We go back to the inn," said Merry. "We ask one of the barmaids to point these Men out, then we follow them. They'll end up leading us straight to Frodo."

"It's a good plan, Mr Merry," said Sam, his brows drawn into a thoughtful frown. "But I don't think Mr Strider will be too happy with us sneaking off in the dead of night with all these dangerous folk about. Especially you Mr Merry, with you being ill and all."

Merry frowned himself, thinking quickly. "Well… we'll just have to sneak out late," he said. "When Aragorn and Gandalf are asleep."

"No," said Sam almost at once. "That won't do. We could miss the Men at the inn. If they're up ta no good, they're not going ta want to be questioned by anyone. They'll want to blend in with the crowd, so they'll be at the inn when there _is_ a crowd, if you follow me. If we're going to the inn, we're going ta have to be there early."

"You're right, Sam," said Merry with a frown. "Only I don't know how long we'll be able to go unnoticed. Aragorn's been on my case like a hawk. We'd barely make it out of the citadel before he realises we're gone."

"Looks like you'll have to stay here then, sir," said Sam. "You can cover for Master Pippin and me." Pippin started shaking his head, his face wearing an expression of such dejection that Merry was about to ask if _he_ didn't feel ill.

"Merry will have to cover for just you, Sam," said Pippin. "I've got guard duties from mid-afternoon until late evening for another week."

"Speaking of duties," said Merry suddenly. "Aren't you supposed to be on duty now?"

Pippin paled, his eyes widening impossibly. He frantically scrambled down from his seat and zoomed out of the dining hall before anyone could quite say or do another thing. The remaining two hobbits stared at the doors of the hall for another moment before looking at each other. Sam sighed.

"Alright," he said. "I'll go on me own. But you'll have to cover for me, Mr Merry. I don't like ta think what Mr Gandalf and Mr Strider would do if they knew what we were up to."

"Don't worry Sam," said Merry reassuringly. "I'll cover for you. But you have to be careful! I don't like to think what those Men would do if they got _two_ hobbits in their custody." Sam snorted.

"Don't worry about _me_, sir," he said. "They're the ones that'll have to watch out! When I get my hands on them they'll be sorry, that's all! If they've hurt a single hair on Mr Frodo's head-"

Sam didn't continue, but a look of such intense and unforgiving fury crossed his usually gentle features, that Merry almost felt sorry for Frodo's abductors. But then he realised that he was feeling a similar wrath within his own heart. His cousin had been through enough. He didn't deserve this.

* * *

About the same time as Pippin returned to his station, the doors to the dining hall opened again and in came two guards. They strode purposefully to where Faramir sat on Aragorn's right. After they had bowed respectfully, Faramir nodded at them to speak.

"My Lord," said one. "We were sent by our captain from the third circle. There has been a breakout in the jail. Six prisoners have escaped."

* * *

Frodo suddenly went rigid as he heard the slam of a door being shut. His eyes darted to the cellar door, delicately pointed ears straining to hear if any footsteps approached. All was silent. Frodo quickly undid the rest of the ropes binding his feet. He had been picking at the bonds for the past half-hour, and was glad to be free of their unforgiving grip at last.

Slowly and very carefully, the hobbit got to his feet, hands gripping the wall to help steady himself. He was greatly dismayed at how wobbly his legs were. Due to his injured ankle, most of his weight was being supported on one foot. Due to impending illness and no food or water for a whole day, the strength of that one foot was very limited.

Once he was standing straight, he leaned heavily against the wall, immensely grateful for its dependable solidity. He closed his eyes for a few moments, hoping that by the time he opened them, the room would stop spinning. He was lucky. Dizziness subsiding for the time being, Frodo shuffled along the wall until he was directly under the lonely window. Ignoring the stabbing pain of his shoulder, back and neck, he stretched his arms up towards the sill as far as he could.

He was still a bit more than a foot short of reaching the bottom of the window. Feeling rather annoyed at this, he turned around to face the rest of the room, and in the glistening light of a full moon whose rays just reached the window, looked about him for something he could stand on.

The cellar was still as empty as it had been for the last twenty-four hours. Sighing, Frodo sat back down on the icy ground, shivering with cold. His clothes were still rather damp from his prolonged position in the puddle.

For several long moments he sat in the middle of the cellar, trying hard to ignore the merciless chill. But he soon got restlessly to his feet again. Sitting around doing nothing wasn't going to make him any warmer. He carefully limped around the cellar, hoping that the movement would generate some sort of heat for him to find comfort in.

He had no such luck. Instead he only wasted more of what little energy he had left within him. His limbs continued to tremble both in reaction to the cold and in protest to the movement forced upon them. As his stomach gave an almighty roar, Frodo realised that perhaps there _was_ a good reason why hobbits ate six meals a day. Pippin never missed a meal if he could help it – and look at the abundance of energy he always seemed to have!

With a pang, Frodo suddenly realised how alone he was. As he dwelt on it, he missed his friends and cousins with such a deep ache that he almost fell to the ground. Now that the Fellowship had reunited, the Ringbearer felt a great reluctance to be separated from them so. But what could he do? He had no way of escape. The window was too high and the door was locked.

To top this all off, his left ankle decided to give way then, and he fell with a pained cry towards the wall and the ground. His hands flew out to catch something – anything – that would save him from the devastation that would surely come when his body impacted with the stone floor. His fingers grabbed hold of the wine shelves, all his weight being suddenly pushed onto the wood. But when he should have stopped moving, he was immensely surprised when the shelves pushed back an inch or so until they hit the wall behind them.

When Frodo was still again, he stood up properly, still holding onto the shelves for support. He looked down at them and frowned. He had thought the shelves were stuck to the ground. He hadn't known they were movable.

Suddenly a light flicked on in his head and his face broke out into a small, slow smile. Looking from the top of the shelves to the window, he grinned. Moving himself to the end of the set of shelves, he began the laborious task of pushing and pulling them towards the window.

* * *

Reynard sighed contentedly as he downed the rest of his beer. This inn really did have the finest ale in the city. And the finest barmaids… He grinned over at Arlyn who promptly turned her back on him. Desmond, who was sitting beside him, rolled his eyes as he finished off what was left in his own mug.

"Why don' yeh come over here an' keep a man company," called Reynard to Arlyn. The young woman looked at him with a face of clear disdain, her moss green eyes alight with contempt.

"I'd rather not," she said. "Now excuse me, but I have customers ta serve."

"_I'm_ a customer," said Reynard. "Won't yeh serve me?"

"I'll leave that fer another unfortunate soul," retorted Arlyn.

"Ah c'mon," said Reynard, spreading his arms out. "What've I done ter you? Gimme a chance – I'll pay yeh fer it."

"Reynard, yeh've barely got enough money ta pay fer a drink," snapped Arlyn, her patience running thin. "How do yeh 'spect ta pay me fer anythin' else?"

"'Cause Des here's gonna make me an' 'im rich," said Reynard with a grin as he clapped his colleague on the back.

"Not this 'master plan' nonsense again!" groaned Arlyn. "Hones'ly, you two are 'opeless! No one's ever gonna give either of you a hoard o' gold. Asides, with all the reparations being made fer the damage of the war, no one's got anything ta give yeh!"

"There's still some people up in the higher circles as has some money left," said Reynard. "The King'll 'ave money." Arlyn snorted.

"If yer plannin' on scammin' the King," she said. "Yeh'd better be careful. His friends are on ta yeh both already. They came around here earlier, askin' about yeh."

Desmond, who had been sitting quietly still on his stool, suddenly leapt off it and moved to the other side of the bar, grabbing Arlyn and dragging her into a dark hallway that led to some rather paltry rooms. He pushed the young barmaid roughly against a wall, his beefy hand gripping her neck. Arlyn's eyes widened and she clutched at Desmond's thick wrist, fighting to breathe.

"What did yeh tell 'em?" growled Desmond. When Arlyn didn't answer straight away he gave her a rough shake. "_WHAT DID YOU TELL THEM_?"

"N-nothin' much," choked Arlyn. "Jus' that y-yer regulars here… a-an'…"

"Did yeh tell 'em our names?" thundered Desmond with another shake.

"J-jus' yer n-nicknames," sobbed Arlyn, tears starting to course down her cheeks. Desmond cursed.

"Did yeh tell 'em where we live?" he barked.

"N-no," answered Arlyn.

"Did yeh tell 'em anythin' else?" demanded Desmond.

"I-I t-told them that yeh was p-plannin' somethin'," sobbed Arlyn. "B-but I said it was prob'ly n-nothin'."

Desmond cursed again and released Arlyn, fairly throwing her to the ground in his fury. "Don't you ever pass information about us to anyone ever again unless I specifically say yeh can!" he roared. "Do I make myself clear?" Arlyn nodded quickly, though she was trembling with fright. Desmond pointed a finger in the general direction of the bar. "Get back ter work," he snarled. Arlyn quickly scrambled to her feet and hurried off. Desmond glared after her, his eyes glittering with rage… and unease. In a heartbeat, that glare was directed at Reynard.

"You idiot," hissed Desmond. "You dim-witted, good-fer-nothin', fat lump of USELESSNESS!" Desmond paused to draw in a few ragged breaths. "_What_ were yeh _thinkin_', tellin' the flamin' _barmaids_ of my _plan_!"

"I'm sorry!" exclaimed Reynard. "I didn' know what I was sayin'. I was drunk!"

"Well yeh've blown it now," snapped Desmond ferociously. "We'll have guards bangin' on the door by dawn thanks ter you!"

"But they dunno where we are," argued Reynard a little timorously. "No one does. That's why we moved 'ouse, remember?"

"It don't matter," barked Desmond impatiently. "It'll on'y be a matter o' time afore they find us." He was pacing like a caged beast, thinking quickly. "We might have ter move again," he said at last. "At any rate we'll have ter get the runt ter write the letter tonight. Then _you_ can make sure it gets ter the cit'del without yeh bein' seen."

"How'm I s'posed ter manage that?" exclaimed Reynard.

"I dunno!" snapped Desmond. "However. Jus' make sure the King'll get it first thing on th' morrow."

"Alrigh'!" said Reynard quickly, not wishing to test Desmond's patience anymore. "Can I get another ale now?"

"No," said Desmond. "We're goin' back ter the house. I dun like the thought of leavin' the rat alone with guards out lookin' fer 'im."

With that said, the two left the inn, making their way back home. Arlyn the barmaid was the only one who noticed them leave. She said nothing when they walked out without paying for their drinks.

* * *

Faramir exchanged a swift look with Aragorn before moving to his feet and leading the two soldiers out of the dining hall. He found more of their company waiting outside the doors which were quickly shut.

"You say six prisoners have escaped?" said Faramir. The guards from the third circle nodded. "Only six? I thought there were at least three dozens locked up in that jailhouse. How came it that only these six escaped?"

"Yes, my Lord, only six," said one of the guards. "And these six were the most heavily guarded. We're not yet sure exactly how they managed it, but they killed all of the guards in the jailhouse. We think they've gone their separate ways though – we haven't sighted such a large number of men in any of the circles."

"The most heavily guarded," repeated Faramir to himself, a deep frown being etched on his forehead. "Which six escaped?"

"Dagnir, Moragar, Seregon, Valmir, Tarenir and Máril."

Faramir's eyes widened in horror. "Oh no." The words escaped from his lips as a breath of foreboding.

"What are your orders, my Lord?" asked another guard.

"I want a full search of the entire city," said Faramir quickly. "Spread the word around of who they are and what they have done. Give descriptions to all shop-owners, stall-owners, innkeepers – anyone who has customers. They must be found quickly."

"Will there be a reward for their capture, Lord Faramir?" asked another soldier. Faramir paused for a moment before answering.

"Yes," he said. "There will be a good reward set on each of their heads. However I must consult with the King first to see how much."

The soldiers bowed low before leaving the palace to begin the official search of the fugitives.

* * *

Sweat was now trickling down his face as he gave the wine shelves a final push against the wall. Flicking his fringe out of his eyes, Frodo stood back, admiring his labours of the past hour or so.

It had been no easy task for him to move the heavy shelves from one side of the room to the other – especially considering his current physical condition. The slashes on his back were burning fiercely and he was almost forced to hop, his left ankle throbbed so badly. He felt dangerously light-headed and was growing increasingly frustrated at the room when it had the audacity to start spinning from time to time. His shoulder, however, had gone decidedly numb which was a blessing. It was much more preferable in this state than the icy, pounding pain that he had been experiencing before. And now he was not freezing cold – another blessing. Instead, he felt hot. It was coming to a point where he was uncomfortably hot. At this he frowned, for while he was hot he was also trembling. Whether it was from overworked muscles, weakness, cold or hunger – he didn't know. But he did know that he couldn't stop now. With a martyred sigh, he approached the wine shelves once again and began to climb up them, using the circular holes in the wood as hand and footholds.

It didn't take him long to reach the top, though when he did, he was positively exhausted. For a moment he lay there, his eyes closed, as he took a moment to recover some strength. But he didn't dare take too long. He still wasn't sure where the two Men were. He didn't know whether that door banging shut before had been the front door or perhaps a bedroom door. Had they decided to get some sleep? Or had they gone out? Or had only one of them gone out? Frodo had no way of knowing. But he had decided that if even one of the Men was still here and awake, they would have come down to the cellar already, wanting to find the source to all the strange scraping and thumping noises (the shelves did not feel inclined to move silently over the stone floor).

So after a few moments, Frodo stood up again and looked at the window. He was now eye-level with its approximate centre. And he was delighted to see that it would be big enough for him to fit through. Now it was only a matter of opening it.

He looked for any hinges that would indicate that the window could actually be opened – and found none. He frowned in annoyance. He was going to have to break the glass then. Praying that the sound of it shattering would not alert anyone he'd rather not of his escape plans, he thrust his elbow into the middle of the pane of glass.

* * *

Desmond was moving at a brisk stride down the street to the house where he had left Frodo. Though he would never show it on his face – he was worried. An unusual amount of soldiers were out this night. And it looked as though they were searching for someone. This was not good. He quickened his pace and kept his eyes forward, not looking around until he was walking up the steps to the front door. Reynard was a few steps behind him.

During the time it took for Reynard to reach the same steps, Desmond's dark eyes darted about the street. There were still a few windows lit up with the light of candles or a fire from within their respective houses. One hooded figure was walking up the street – away from Desmond. A middle-aged woman was balancing a basket on her hip, opening a nearby front door. She quickly disappeared into it and the door closed with a snap. Reynard arrived on the porch.

Desmond took one more moment to gaze up at the dark sky. The clouds he had seen that morning had not been idle in their travels – they were now hanging ominously over the city. A low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. The storm would probably break that night.

Desmond turned back to the door and found to his bewilderment that it was already open, just a crack. His brows immediately drew down into a suspicious frown. Since when did doors open on their own accord? He hesitated but a moment before pushing the door open all the way. Even as it swung further back, his eyes beheld that something was standing in the middle of the front hallway, facing him. He stumbled backwards into Reynard, barely suppressing a shout. For it was not a something, but a some_one_.

Two cold eyes glittered back at him. Desmond stumbled back further, causing Reynard to trip down the rest of the stairs with a somewhat muffled yelp. Though he couldn't see this person's face, Desmond knew it was smirking at them as though greatly amused. Then suddenly he felt as though he was frozen. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and stood on end, sending shivers up his spine. His own widened eyes remained glued to the black figure in the hallway. His hands clung desperately to the wall next to him. His mouth was hanging open as though emitting a silent scream. He could not explain it – but a cold sense of dread washed over him like a gust of wind. He could not name what instinct or sense spoke to him then, but it whispered in his ear a sensation of familiarity – that he knew this black figure.

Finally retaining a grip on the gift of speech, Desmond spoke, though his voice trembled slightly.

"Who are yeh? What yeh doin' in my house?"

The figure elicited a low, silky laugh. "_Your_ house?" he hissed smoothly – for this _was_ the voice of a man. "Since when has this been _your_ house, son of Desril?"

Desmond frowned. He knew the voice as well. But it was changed. Mutated since the latest hearing his memory could recall. He could not place who it belonged to. Growing impatient with himself and this intruder, he drew out his dagger, pointing it at the man's throat.

"Who are yeh?" he repeated in a deep growl. He could almost see the man's eyebrows rising in disdain. In a flash the intruder had drawn a sword, pointing it almost casually at Desmond's heart.

"Lower your weapon Desmond," he hissed. "Before you do something you'll regret."

Something in those words was even more familiar to Desmond, and realisation struck him. His eyes widened once more and the dagger fell with a clatter to the ground.

"Seregon?"

The man laughed again, though the sound carried little humour. He lowered his sword and his hood. His eyes adjusting more to the dark, Desmond was able to see the detail in the man's face. Behind him, Reynard had climbed back to his feet and gave a harsh gasp as he too looked into the figure's features.

One of the most dangerous criminals in Minas Tirith was standing in the doorway before them.

TBC

_A/N: A million hugs for Lexi for being my angel. :D Sorry everyone about the wait. I've been sick since I came back from my holiday. And now I'll have a ton of homework to catch up on, so updates will probably take longer._

_Breon Briarwood – Lol. I'm typing as fast as I can for you Breon! :D_

_Elijahs-gurl – Wow! Thank you so much! Wow! I can't stop grinning here! :D blushes I do try my best… Wow! Thank you for your lovely words! I'm truly touched! :D I'm glad you're enjoying it so much. Wow! THANK YOU! :D All of you who review keep me going. You all make me want to write all the more. Your encouragement really helps boost morale and keeps my muses around for longer ;) hehehe. Thank you so much!_

_heartofahobbit – Hehehe. Frodo certainly is one tough hobbit. And to me he seems to give a lot of people a run for their money. And I doubt that you'll be feeling too sorry for the ruffians for too much longer… ;) And the Merry/Frodo connection is kinda both – cousinly and harboured by the Nazgûl attacks._

_hush1630 – Thank you for the compliment :D My deepest apologies, Becca. I'm not exactly sure yet when Frodo's going to be 'out of the woods' so to speak, so I'm not sure when this story will start appealing to you more… Might I suggest you save your energy used for whining for the ruffians? Speaking of them, hush – concerning the intelligence of Desmond and Reynard, I would like for that to show more, but so far I haven't really been able to think of something intelligent for them to do. Hopefully now that Seregon is here, he will bring out more intelligence… either that or he will only show how stupid they are at the moment. But I will bear your request in mind for future chapters. :)_

_Kaewi – Hehehe. I think stubbornness must run in the family. Bagginses, Brandybucks and Tooks alike. And the potion among other things should be in use next chapter, so watch out for them. And the ooze… well… we'll just have to see what happens with that… ;)_

_LilyBaggins – Hahaha. Don't be ashamed Lily! We're all fans of this sort of thing here! :D I am very glad to receive your review now though, so don't fret! :D Thank you for your lovely words. I always get worried about keeping the characters as true to the books and movies as possible. So thank you indeed for your reassurances :D And you can be assured that Frodo will get plenty of comfort and support from his friends and family when all is said and done. He'll have to, or else my health and safety will be in serious jeopardy! Hehehe. ;)_

_Stephanie – You're right to be scared about the poison oozy stuff – it is not nice! But if it comes to using the poison, I hope you can cope! :D And you are very welcome for the chapter! Thank you for your lovely reviews :)_


	9. Storms

**_Every Man for Himself_**

****

_Disclaimer: Come on – do you really think it even remotely likely that Lord of the Rings could belong to me? sighs Wish it _was_ likely that it could belong to me… Then Frodo and Legolas would be MINE! MWAHAHAHA! … Sorry. Couldn't help myself. Desmond, Reynard and the escaped prisoners (including Seregon) all belong to me though so HA! … er… yes… moving on…_

**Chapter 9: Storms**

_4 May 3019 – Late Night_

"What-" Desmond stood stuttering on the front doorstep, eyes goggling at the man stood before him in the doorway to a small and rather dingy house. "What are yeh doin' here?"

"Returning home," answered Seregon smoothly. His tone carried a hint of warning that did not go unnoticed by Desmond or Reynard.

"So…" Desmond stammered again. "So they let yeh out o' jail did they?"

"No," replied Seregon shortly. "But I will soon be back there again if you two do not come inside now."

With a quick glance over their shoulders into the silent street behind, Desmond and Reynard disappeared into the darkness of the hallway. Reynard carefully closed the door behind him so as not to make any sound that would cause unwanted attention.

"Why… Why don't we go ter the livin' room," suggested Desmond after a few moments of awkward silence.

"Yes," agreed Seregon silkily. "Then you can explain to me why you have invaded my house." In the dim moonlight that permeated the hallway, Desmond and Reynard exchanged uncomfortable looks.

"Right," said the former at last. "If… If that's what yeh want then…"

It was not long before the three sat around a smouldering blaze in the fireplace. Seregon sat at ease in the most comfortable of the moth-eaten armchairs. His icy grey gaze was locked onto the flames, as if hypnotised by their dance. It reminded Desmond uncannily of the snake charmers down south in Umbar.

This reverie was broken suddenly, however, by the sound of a dull thud that reached their ears. Seregon blinked and looked about him.

"What was that?" he demanded sharply. Desmond and Reynard could only shrug their shoulders.

"Sounded like it came from the cellar," said Reynard nervously.

"Dun be stupid," snapped Desmond. "The rat's tied up. How could 'e poss'bly do anythin'?" This answer brought little comfort to Reynard. He had a sudden perplexing feeling that he had forgotten to do something very important. However, he leaned back in his chair, though a small frown refused to leave his face.

"Rat?" questioned Seregon softly. "Back in business are you Desmond?"

"So ter speak," said Desmond uncomfortably.

"So it is _you_ who the guards were talking about," continued Seregon, a thoughtful and measuring look dawning on his scarred face. "They were discussing the disappearance of one of the King's friends. Apparently he was taken last night. That's what I heard before I killed those guards of course…" Seregon's thin lips curled up into a manic sort of smile. "Was I right in my guess?"

"Yes," said Desmond, looking even more uneasy. "We – we need some more gold."

Seregon laughed outright. The sound was unpleasant – cold, oily and mirthless. It was as though the convict was laughing just for the sake of it. "So you are holding him for ransom are you?" he said. "And have you sent the letter yet?"

"Not yet," said Desmond. "We were gonna get the rat ter write the note tonight."

"I see," said Seregon. "How much are you demanding for him?"

"Er…" Desmond glanced over at Reynard. "We haven' exac'ly sorted that out yet." Seregon's eyebrows rose.

"Where are you doing the exchange?" he asked.

"Erm… Somewhere private?"

"You mean you haven't even decided where you will do the exchange?"

"Not exac'ly…"

"Desmond you are pathetic," spat Seregon. His cold eyes were now hard and stern. "Are you telling me that you just went ahead and kidnapped a friend of the King without having decided exactly what you were going to do with him? Have you forgotten everything I taught you?"

"No," said Desmond quickly, colour rising in his face. "Course I haven'. It's jus'… I dun want them guards comin' after us. It needs careful consid'ration."

"You should have decided _everything_ before you acted," snapped Seregon. "Now you will be blundering through this whole business, not knowing or having the time to think if the decision you make is the best one."

"The opportunity arose!" said Desmond defensively. "It was prob'ly the on'y time we would've bin able ter get 'im on 'is own without trouble."

Seregon opened his mouth to challenge this response when there came a sudden shattering of glass. All three men sat up straight in their chairs and stared at each other.

"That definitely came from the cellar," said Reynard slowly. There was one moment of silence before Desmond scrambled to his feet. He lurched to the kitchen, groping along the benches and on the floor for the key to the cellar.

"REYNARD WHERE IN ERU'S NAME IS THE FLIPPIN' KEY!" he roared.

Reynard came stumbling into the kitchen and felt along the benches before he remembered.

"I put it in my room," he said.

"WELL DON' JUST STAND THERE LIKE A BLOODY STUNNED FISH!" bellowed Desmond. "GO AND GET IT YOU LUMP OF TOTAL WORTHLESSNESS!"

Needing no more encouragement, Reynard bounded up the stairs, three at a time, and burst into the bedroom he had been using since moving into the house. He felt around for the required key in the darkness for a moment before his fingers finally touched the cool metal. He grabbed it and jumped down the stairs to the ground floor. Desmond at once snatched the key from his grasp and thrust it into the cellar door. As the lock clicked, he kicked the door open so that it bounced on its hinges with a loud 'bang'. As his eyes adjusted to the new darkness, he gave a strangled yell of fury. In a flash, a pair of abnormally large and hairy feet disappeared out of the broken window of the cellar.

* * *

Frodo momentarily froze when he heard the shouts coming from the floor above him. Not wasting another precious second, he hoisted himself the rest of the way out of the window and onto the ground. His hands started to bleed as they supported most of his weight while leaning heavily on the broken shards of glass. His elbow was bleeding too, where he had thrust it into the window, but he ignored them. His plans had been discovered and he now had no time to spare.

Even as he pulled the rest of his body out of the window, he heard the cellar door exploding open. He listened in horror as Desmond cried out in voracious rage. Pure adrenaline now pumping through his veins, he stumbled to his feet, ignoring the sharp stab that shot through his left ankle, and began to run down the street.

Back in the cellar, Desmond flew down the stairs and flung himself up the newly positioned shelves. He stuck his head out of the window and saw Frodo disappearing down the street. As Desmond moved again, this time running towards the front door, yelling at Reynard to grab the sleeping potion and at Seregon to follow the escaping hobbit, he allowed himself a _very_ brief smile. Frodo was running downhill. Downhill led towards the gates of the city. Once he was there, he would have nowhere else to hide.

* * *

Very suddenly, Frodo stopped running. For a moment he could not fathom why his mind had told him to, as it would only mean that Desmond and Reynard would catch up with him. It would also mean that he would have to face a terrible onslaught of pain – which he did. But suddenly logic struck him and he abruptly turned around and started running the other way. His best bet was to go uphill towards the gates that would lead to the next circle. At least he would then be one circle closer towards the citadel, even if he landed himself in even more trouble. As long as he wasn't caught by Desmond and Reynard…

This new thought egging him on, he increased his speed. Though hobbits didn't look it, most were very fast runners when they wanted to be. And Frodo was no exception. His speed had saved him on many a mushroom and pantry raid in his younger days…

Thinking of how nice it would be to get back to the citadel and into the company of his friends, he continued running, blatantly ignoring the constant pain pulsing through his entire body – though he knew he could not keep up such a pace for long. Lungs that were already struggling against illness quickly became thoroughly abused. As his vision began to blur and spin, he knew he would have to take a rest, even if only for a moment. He took a detour into a dark alleyway where he leaned heavily against the cool wall of a house. He closed his eyes as he fought to regain control of his harsh breathing. His airway felt cold and raw and unbearably dry. He struggled to remember when last fresh water had passed his lips… Refusing to dwell on this train of thought for too long, as it would only make him feel worse, he opened his eyes and jogged out of the alleyway and onto the main road again. He kept to the shadows as much as he could, it being plain stupid to attempt escape if you were in clear view of your captors. For short intervals he sped up before returning to a jog. As time passed, he began to feel nauseous as well as weak and dizzy. He was literally running solely on adrenaline, having used up all of his energy shifting the heavy wine shelves across the room.

Then, after what felt like hours, he finally sank to his knees, breaking out into a harsh bout of coughing between gasps for air. Sweat was trickling down his hot face, though the rest of him felt oddly cold. A strong gust of wind blew over him and he shivered.

A couple of minutes later, the coughing subsided and the lone hobbit climbed back unsteadily to his feet. With a surreptitious glance behind him, he continued to limp uphill as fast as he could. He couldn't see or hear any signs of pursuit. But he knew that somewhere, two people at least were hunting for him. He continued on, though it cost him immense pain and only persisted to drain him of more energy. But still he continued on. For he was going to reach the gates to the next level and get help from the guards if it was the last thing he did. Even as thunder growled its cautions at him, he did not stop moving forward. Even when lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the streets and giving him no place of darkness to conceal his presence, he did not stop moving forward. And finally when the heavens opened and the skies poured out their tears, he did not stop moving forward.

* * *

"Wait!" called Reynard. "Stop!" Desmond and Seregon skidded to a stop and turned to face the panting man.

"What?" demanded Desmond. Reynard did not reply, but stooped to the ground, his fingers lightly brushing over the dust and dirt that had settled on the stone street. He carefully studied a specific patch for a moment before looking forward, then looking back.

"'E's gone the other way," he said, standing up straight and wiping his hands on his clothes.

"What yeh on about?" snapped Desmond. "I saw 'im runnin' off this way." He pointed downhill, the way they had been going.

"I know that," said Reynard impatiently. "But 'e stopped 'ere, turned back around and went boltin' up the other way. Look at the ground. All the way from the cellar 'e's bin leavin' a trail o' blood. 'E must've cut 'imself on the glass. But there's more of 'is blood in this one spot, then there's no more ahead."

"Well how come there ain't two trails back that way then?" demanded Desmond, pointing back up the street.

"I dunno!" snapped Reynard. "He mighta stemmed the blood flow somehow or somethin'."

"How do yeh know 'e didn' keep goin' this way then?" asked Desmond, this time pointing downhill.

"'Is tracks aren't hard fer me ter tell apart from the rest of 'em," explained Reynard. "I can't see anymore of 'is tracks goin' t'wards the gates."

There was the briefest of pauses as Desmond looked to the ground himself, taking the time to think through the next course of action.

"How can we trust you on this?" said Seregon in an almost accusing tone. "How do you know how to track?"

"My older brother taught me when I was younger," answered Reynard gruffly. "'E was a Ranger in Ithilien."

"You're the brother of a _Ranger_!" exclaimed Seregon, though not loud enough to attract attention from any nearby inhabitants. He grabbed the front of Reynard's cloak roughly, giving him a shake. "That is even less reason to trust you! You could be telling the guards everything for all we know."

"Yeh can trust 'im," broke in Desmond. "Though 'e's useless for anythin' else, 'e knows what e's talkin' 'bout when it comes ter trackin'." Seregon didn't look convinced. "Now let's go before we all get caught by them guards." Following Reynard's lead, the three continued on their hunt. They moved quickly and silently, Reynard occasionally crouching to examine what the ground could tell him. The last time he did this, he stood up grinning.

"What're you so 'appy 'bout?" demanded Desmond.

"'E's slowin' down," said Reynard. "He's tryin' ta get ter the gates leadin' up. 'E'll stick ter the main street. We can pick up the pace a bit, I think."

Grins surfacing on their faces, Seregon and Desmond broke into a swift run up the street. They didn't slow down for anything. Not even when it started to rain.

* * *

At last, at long last, the gates to the next circle came into view. Frodo gave a small sob of relief. As he stumbled closer to them, he tripped over his own feet, falling with a splash into a very muddy puddle. Well this was just fantastic! Now he was muddy as well as soaked through to the bone. What was it with him falling into puddles anyway? Nevertheless, he shook his annoyance off and stood up again, swaying slightly before he moved on. Through the heavy curtains of rain, he could make out the guardhouse – its windows illuminated gold by the warmth of a cheery fire from within. With a trembling hand, Frodo knocked on the door. It was some moments before it opened. More golden light spilled onto him as he stood shivering, looking up at the towering soldier.

"Yes?" he said to the hobbit. "What do you want young master?"

"Please sir," croaked Frodo, his voice barely audible through the cacophony of the storm, his wide eyes pleading. "I need to get back to the citadel right away."

"Do you have the right passwords, young master?"

Frodo gaped up at the soldier, a new coldness of unease settling in his stomach. He had not been told the passwords. He had not needed them – he had always been with someone who knew them when he had ventured out of the seventh circle.

"N-no," he answered. "I'm afraid I don't have the passwords."

"Well I'm sorry, lad," said the soldier. "But I can't let you go to the citadel without the proper passwords – security reasons, you know."

"You don't understand!" exclaimed Frodo desperately. "I'm Frodo Baggins – a friend of the King!" The soldier laughed.

"You, my lad," he said. "Are a young boy of no more than ten summers if I'm any judge. Now go back home! I have more important things to do than waste time on a young scoundrel like yourself! The King's friend indeed!"

With that, the soldier snapped the door to the guardhouse shut, leaving Frodo still standing out in the rain, a look of pure disbelief on his white face. This could not possibly be happening. There was just _no way_!

He stumbled back from the guardhouse as though it was some vile enemy, purposely working against him. He stumbled back until his body slammed into something. Something that felt suspiciously like a person. He turned around to find himself staring up at Desmond's livid face. Lightning flashed, bringing the shadowed streets into sharp relief. Frodo's eyes widened in cold fear. For one heartbeat he stood frozen so, then he spun back around to bolt off. But Desmond was too quick for him. He had barely gone three steps before he was sent crashing to the muddy ground as his left ankle was caught in a stern iron grip. He screamed out in agony at the sudden unexpected pressure on his injury.

"Rey!" yelled Desmond. "Get that potion out! Quick!"

Reynard fumbled in his pockets for the sleeping potion, but was quickly distracted by another somewhat muffled scream. He looked up to see Desmond clutching his nose in anguish. Frodo had kicked him in the face with his powerful foot. Even now the hobbit was struggling to stand up. However, as Reynard gave an inarticulate cry, Frodo was swept off his feet in a swift motion and held tightly in Seregon's stalwart arms.

"Hurry up," he said sharply to Reynard. Reynard quickly resumed his fumbling until he pulled out a glass bottle.

"Hold 'im still!" said Reynard intolerantly, for Frodo was struggling furiously against Seregon's robust grip. With an exasperated roll of his eyes, Seregon changed his grip so that he held Frodo in one arm. Using the other, he drew out a sharp curved knife and held it to the hobbit's throat. Frodo stilled at once.

"Another move and you die," warned Seregon. Frodo glared up at him.

"You wouldn't," he said, his voice now hard. "You need me." Though he still wasn't sure exactly what the men's intentions for him were, he recalled Desmond's words to him that he was apparently going to make them rich.

"Correction," hissed Seregon smoothly. "_They_ need you. _I_ couldn't care less whether or not they make their money from you – or if you die."

Frodo's eyes widened in a new-found fear. Taking advantage of the moment, Reynard quickly opened the bottle, holding it under the hobbit's nose. Too distracted to notice what was happening, he took a breath and felt himself grow suddenly drowsy. In a heartbeat he was out cold. Grinning in satisfaction, Reynard put the stopper back in the bottle and returned it safely to his pocket. But even as he was pulling his hand back out again, the door to the guardhouse opened. The three men stiffened. Reynard glanced over at Seregon to see that he had somehow pulled his hood back up in a flash. Desmond hastily got back up to his feet as the same soldier that had opened the door before stepped out into the rain. He frowned as he beheld the three men and halfling.

"What's going on here?" demanded the guard in a suspicious tone.

"Nuffink, good sir," replied Desmond, still covering his broken nose.

"What happened to your nose?" continued the guard, looking unconvinced.

"Wasn'd wadchin' where I was goink," said Desmond huffily.

"What's wrong with him?" asked the guard, pointing to Frodo.

"My son has been ill," said Seregon softly. "A fever. He managed to run out of the house while we were distracted. The effort has proved too much I'm afraid."

"Must be a mighty fever," commented the guard, still frowning. "He knocked on our door. Thought he was the King's friend. You should get him home quickly."

"Yes," said Seregon. "We'll do that. Sorry to inconvenience you." The soldier nodded and disappeared back inside the guardhouse. Reynard released a sigh of relief before he turned back to the others.

"We _should_ get back," he said. Not another word was exchanged between the men as they made their way through the storm to Seregon's house. Frodo didn't so much as twitch in his drug-induced sleep.

* * *

"What do we do with 'im now?" asked Reynard. The three were looking down at Frodo who had been put on one of the armchairs in the parlour.

"Well we can'd pud 'im in da cellar again," said Desmond. He now held a filthy cloth to his broken nose as he tried to stem the bleeding a bit. But even through the cloth the other two could hear the acrimony in his voice.

"The attic then?" suggested Reynard.

"It will have to do," said Seregon, his tone carrying outright antipathy. He scooped the hobbit back in his arms (none too gently) and disappeared out of the room. His footsteps were heard echoing up the stairs to the second floor, before they faded out of hearing as they continued up to the attic. Desmond turned to face Reynard.

"Whad I would like der know," he said. "Is how the rad managed der move them shelves agross da room."

"Must be stronger than we thought," mused Reynard.

"Yeah," said Desmond. "Sdrong enough do break 'is robes doo. Wonder 'ow 'e managed dat?" He gave Reynard a significant look.

"What yeh lookin' at me like that fer!" exclaimed Reynard.

"BEGAUSE, YOU INCOMBEDENT GOOD-FER-NUFFIN' EXGUSE OF A MAN!" roared Desmond furiously. "YEH FERGOD DER DIE UP 'IS 'ANDS AGAIN!"

"SO THAT MAKES IT _MY_ FAULT THAT 'E ESCAPED?" bellowed back Reynard. "_YOU_ WERE THE LAS' ONE OUTTA THE CELLAR! _YOU_ DIDN' NOTICE 'E WASN' TIED UP!"

"ID WASN' MY JOB DA CHEG!" shouted Desmond. "_YOU_ UNDIED 'IM, _YOU_ SHOULDA DIED 'IM BAG UB! DERE'S NO EXGUSE REYNARD!"

"WHAT 'BOUT THE HALFLIN'? _HE_'_S_ THE ONE WHO DID THE BLOODY ESCAPIN'! WE DIDN' TEACH 'IM A GOOD ENOUGH LESSON!"

"That will be amended," hissed Seregon. He had returned from the attic, a carefully blank expression on his pale face. "Once he has awoken he will write the letter, then he will pay the price for his actions. He will learn what happens when lower beings like himself are disobedient."

"And 'e'll ged a good wallobing, no misdake," muttered Desmond.

"He will," agreed Seregon. "Now, do you have paper and ink? He should be waking up within the next hour."

* * *

Perhaps two or so hours after the storm had broken over the city, Peregrin Took trudged back to the room he shared with Merry, dragging his heavy heart along with him. Since hearing the information that Legolas and Gimli had gathered, a sense of leaden dread had accrued within him like the growth of an avalanche. The last time he had felt this worried, Merry had been on the brink of death after helping to destroy the Witch-King of Angmar.

Shuddering at this thought, Pippin soundlessly closed the door to the bedroom and began pacing, the same questions revolving in his head. How could things have become so bad? Why had Frodo, of all people, been taken? Why couldn't his cousin just be left in peace for a while without some sort of catastrophe occurring?…

What was worse, Pippin had received news, not minutes after returning to his post, that the city's most dangerous criminals had broken out of the jailhouse. In the morning he would be expected to help search for them. Perhaps he would be able to search for Frodo at the same time? He sighed and began to change into his nightshirt, all the while being careful not to awaken Merry. He was just about to climb into his own bed when there was an incensed howl of thunder followed instantly by a vivid flash of lightning. The tween jumped in surprise. Through all his worrying, he had completely forgotten the raging storm. He gazed at his bed for a moment, before tentatively making his way over to Merry's instead. As he snuggled under the comforting covers against his sleeping cousin's back, his mind drifted off to another time and another place, both so far away…

* * *

It was 1402 and one of the hottest summers that the Shire could remember. While June had brought one of the worst droughts, July had decided to bring some of the worst summer storms.

Eleven-year-old Pippin lay quivering in bed on one of these tempestuous July evenings, not in the least bit sleepy, though it was well after midnight. He had always been petrified of storms. His sisters gave him no end of abuse for it, but he just couldn't help it! Whenever the first claps of thunder would rumble through the skies, he would always run straight to his parents' room and dive into their bed, refusing point blank to come out until the storm had passed.

But now he wasn't at home with his parents and sisters. Now he and Merry were visiting Frodo at Bag End. Though Merry had been travelling to and from Brandy Hall and Bag End a lot since last autumn when Bilbo Baggins had disappeared, this was Pippin's first visit without the elderly hobbit about. And he was not too happy about it. Since Bilbo's infamous departure, the young lad had noticed a definite change in Frodo. He seemed much more sadder and quieter these days. In Pippin's mind, he was far too responsible, reliable, sensible, dependable and a lot of other things that ended in '-ble'. This, in turn, made Pippin feel sad, as he did not like it when the people he loved weren't as happy as they should be. He personally could not see what the problem was. After all, Frodo had a huge, luxurious hole all to himself. _He_ didn't have to worry about the grown-ups telling _him_ to wash behind his ears and between his toes. _He_ didn't have someone screeching at _him_ all the time to tidy his room or help with the chores. Frodo could do whatever he liked whenever he liked and no one would give him any grief for it.

There was another crash of thunder, and Pippin burrowed deeper still into his nest of covers, clutching his toy rabbit to him like his life depended on it. This also happened to be his first time at Bag End during a thunderstorm. And the more unfamiliar surroundings did nothing to help his current phobia. The lightning was casting horribly scary shadows onto his bedroom wall. It looked like a clawed hand dressed in tattered black cloth was about to strike out and grab him…

There was another boom of thunder and flash of lightning, and Pippin was out of his bed and racing down the hallway faster than you could say 'boo'. He burst into Merry's room and plunged into the covers, on top of a very grumpy, groggy and bewildered cousin.

"Pippin," mumbled Merry, his annoyance quite clear through his tone. "What are you doing?"

"Merry there's something outside my room it's got horrible clawed hands and it's going to try and gobble me up I think it's one of Bilbo's trolls can I stay here with you!" squeaked Pippin in one breath. Merry groaned.

"No," he murmured shortly. "Nothing's there, Pip. It's just your imagination. Now go back to sleep."

"But Merry I haven't _been_ to sleep!" argued Pippin.

"Then go to sleep now," mumbled Merry. "In _your_ bed."

"Merry why can't I stay here?" whimpered Pippin.

"You kick when you're like this," muttered Merry, already falling back asleep. He gave a long yawn. "I want to have a good night's sleep thank you very much. Now go back to your room like a good lad. Go on!"

Realising defeat, Pippin returned miserably to his own bed. Perhaps Merry was right. His mother _had_ always told him that he had a very vivid imagination, whatever _that_ meant… He felt his eyelids drooping shut when there was another flash of lightning so bright that he was sure he would have been blinded had he looked straight at it. Instead he opened his eyes fully and looked up at the wall. There were now _two_ clawed hands, reaching towards him, ready to snatch him from his bed and…

Thunder clattered at such a great volume that Pippin could have sworn every pot, pan, glass, mug, plate, bowl, spoon, fork and knife in Bag End had crashed onto the kitchen floor. Without a moment's hesitation, he was leaping out of bed as though it had caught fire and was zooming back down the hallway. This time, though, he went straight past Merry's room and shot into Frodo's, hurtling deep into the covers until he was nothing more discernible than a quivering lump. Upon feeling the weight of his younger cousin slamming into him, Frodo awoke with an 'oof'. He bolted upright and looked about himself, completely bewildered as to what had just happened. But when he looked down and saw his blankets quivering, he allowed himself a small smile before he lay back down.

"Pippin?" he said softly. The lump beside him gave a muffled sound of reply. "You're not scared of the storm are you?" Part of the lump shook extra vigorously from side to side in what Frodo guessed to mean a very unconvincing 'no'. But just then, there was another crack of thunder and Pippin's upper body emerged from the covers, arms flinging themselves around Frodo's middle.

"I see," said the elder hobbit with a slightly bigger smile. Lightning momentarily lit up the room and Pippin's green eyes widened impossibly as he looked up his cousin.

"Why does it do that?" he whispered, as though scared the storm would hear him and retaliate.

"Do you remember the tale of the battle between Huan the Wolfhound of the Valar, and Carcharoth the evil Wolf of Morgoth?"

"And how Carcharoth bit off Beren's hand when he was holding that jewel?"

"That's right," said Frodo. "The Silmaril. The thunder you hear now is an echo of Carcharoth's howls of fear at Huan's strength, and pain of the Silmaril's power and burning light."

"Oh," breathed Pippin, his eyes wide with awe. "That's not very nice. No wonder thunder is so scary."

"Indeed," agreed Frodo. "But do you know what the lightning is?"

"No!" whispered Pippin, anticipation on every inch of his face.

"They are stray rays of light from the Silmaril, illuminating the skies with their brilliance and goodness to scare off Carcharoth, and give us hope that good will always win in the end."

"But the lightning scares me too," said Pippin worriedly. "Does that mean that I'm bad like Carcharoth?"

"Of course not!" said Frodo with a comforting smile. "Things with great power, like the Silmaril, can be scary to lots of people, you know. Take Gandalf for example. He's a very powerful wizard, and though he's mostly nice to us, sometimes he can be very scary too."

"Oh," said Pippin, understanding dawning on his features. "So scary things can actually be good things too?"

"Sometimes," said Frodo carefully. "But there are creatures in this world who are scary and bad. Goblins and orcs and trolls are scary things, and will never be good."

"Then how do you know which scary things are good and which ones are bad?"

"Sometimes you just know. Or else someone will tell you. Someone you trust, mind," he added quickly. He didn't want to think of what could happen if Lotho Sackville-Baggins started telling any more terrifying tales to the young Took.

There were a few moments of silence between the two hobbits, and Frodo thought that perhaps Pippin had drifted off to sleep. He was proved wrong, however, when the hobbit made another enquiry.

"How do you know all this, Frodo?" There was a short, hesitant pause, as if Frodo was contemplating whether or not to answer.

"My mother once told me," he said softly. "A long time ago when I was about your age. You see, I used to be afraid of storms just like you." Pippin suddenly sat up and stared at his cousin in astonishment.

"_You_ were scared of storms?" he exclaimed. "But you're not scared of _anything_! You're the bravest hobbit in the Shire – everyone knows _that_!"

Frodo laughed outright at this and shook his head. "Pippin," he said. "No one's completely fearless. We're all afraid of something."

"Well… You're not _now_!" insisted Pippin. "And neither is Merry _or_ Bilbo _or_ Gandalf-"

"That's not true!" said Frodo. "Bilbo's afraid of plenty of things to be going on with. And Merry… well I'd best not say in case he finds out. Now go to sleep, lad. You've had a long day today, and it won't do for you to be tired and grumpy on the morrow."

Pippin lay down on the bed and snuggled up against his cousin. The lightning continued to flash, and the thunder continued to growl, but the young hobbit no longer felt terribly afraid. Especially not with Frodo there. He knew that Frodo would protect him from _anything_.

He was finally drifting off to sleep, when there was yet another crack of thunder – the loudest yet. He didn't properly awaken, but he distinctly heard the door opening and the mattress shifting as Merry hurriedly climbed in on Frodo's other side.

"Frodo?" whispered Merry. "You don't mind if I stay here tonight do you? It's just that… with this big storm and everything… well I wouldn't want you and Pippin to get too scared or anything… And we might as well stick together, don't you think?"

With his eyes still closed, Frodo smiled and expertly shifted the blankets so that the three of them were covered cosily.

"Goodnight lads," he said softly.

* * *

Pippin shivered at the memory and burrowed closer to Merry. His eyelids were growing heavier and heavier. As another flash of lightning tore across the sky, he wondered if the light of the Silmaril brought any hope to Frodo now.

_Yes_, he thought. _Of course it is_._ Frodo won't give up_._ We'll find him soon_. And with that thought, his eyes closed in sleep. He was too exhausted to even notice the small tear that rolled down his face.

TBC

_A/N: This chapter has officially received the Lexi Stamp of Approval. :D (Thanks Lex!) I am so sorry that I took so long to update everyone! My deeeeepest apologies! Unfortunately I've had a huge amount of homework lately and I've got exams coming up in a few weeks which I have to start revising for groans. Not to mention that I obtained the most horrible thing I could possibly get… WRITER'S BLOCK! So those are my excuses for not updating for so long. Do with them what you will, I just hope this chapter isn't too much of a disappointment. Like I said, I got writer's block and had A LOT of trouble putting even one decent sentence together at a time. But enough of all that…_

_Breon Briarwood – Hahaha. I hope that when things get better the story won't get worse! :P_

_Elijahs-gurl – Thank you very much! Your faith in my abilities as a writer is very encouraging :) Sorry to leave you hanging for so long! (you can read the above excuses if you wish) But I'll keep trying to update as quickly as I possibly can. :)_

_Graphite ZK – My apologies for leaving you hanging! But the evil little demons inside my head keep egging me on. (hehehe!) Info on Seregon, eh? In future chapters you should definitely know him better, but I think now you're starting to get the idea. He is definitely not nice though! And I think he's certainly bringing out _something_, particularly in Reynard. Those two haven't really gotten off to a good start, and I think Seregon's doubts of Reynard's capabilities will just encourage him to prove himself more. Becca – Well… Frodo _did_ get out of there… only he got back in again. :s Sorry!_

_Indolosse – Hehehe. Thank you Bronwyn :D Your compliments mean a lot to me :D This chapter should probably give you a bit more reason to worry about Seregon. As to how the prisoners escaped jail… well… maybe you'll find out in the future ;)_

_Iorhael – This chapter should answer your question. Ah indeed! I doubt very much whether Seregon would help anyone unless there was something in it for him. Evil baddie. _

_Kaewi – I'm feeling much better, thank you :) Hopefully these baddies will lose in the end too, but we'll just have to see, won't we :D I'm glad that the descriptions of Legolas are to your liking. (hehehe) I hope to put more of him in soon, along with several others, come to think of it ;) But the relationship between Legolas and Gimli… well I guess it's just gotten to that point where the insults are virtually meaningless between the two of them. sniffs Besides, an ELF would _NEVER_ stoop so low as to argue with a DWARF about trivial matters :P_

_Stephanie – Hmmm. Things _are_ getting rather complicated, aren't they. The connection between them _is_ a bit strange – it just kinda popped out of no where in my head – but perhaps it will end up helping more than hindering… hmm… I guess we'll see. ;) And keep hoping for Sam's safety. With things the way they are in the city, he's gonna need all the help he can get, I'd say!_


	10. The Letter

**_Every Man for Himself_**

****

_Disclaimer: Do you think I could pretend that Lord of the Rings belonged to me? No? WELL FINE THEN! Hmph! (hehehe) In that case it doesn't belong to me and I'm not making a profit or anything out of writing this. Oh look! I see that the men in white coats are coming to take me away…_

**Chapter 10: The Letter**

_5 May 3019 – Before Dawn_

On the very edge of his mind, he knew that he really didn't want to wake up. He knew that if he were to open his eyes and let consciousness take him, he would not like the results one bit. But he unfortunately did not have the power to stop the inevitable.

As his mind drifted ever closer to awareness, a strange sense of paralysis overcame him – he felt dizzy and nauseous as he found himself suddenly encompassed in a thick grey fog that he could not escape. A sickly sweet smell defiled his nostrils, making him want to retch. He detested that smell. At that moment he wasn't exactly sure why that was… but that didn't really matter now – he was waking up.

His eyelids fluttered open and the first theory that crossed his thoughts produced was that he must have somehow gotten drunk. For that was the only explanation his lethargic mind could come up with to justify why he felt so utterly abysmal. In fact, he could have written a book on the many afflictions of his body at the time…

He suddenly frowned and began to wonder, not _why_ he was drunk, but _how_. Sam would _never_ have allowed it, no matter what Merry, Pippin or anyone did or said to try and persuade him otherwise. His frown deepened. Sam also would _NEVER_ have allowed him to be tied up to the frame of a hard wooden chair in a very cold and very dark room that Frodo had never before seen in his life. Actually, come to think of it… where _was_ Sam?

And then realisation once more dawned on him as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice over his body. Frodo Baggins had been kidnapped by two Men and was being held in their house. Wait… _three Men_. His fuzzy memory managed to produce an image of a third menacing being, clutching him in an iron grip and holding a cold and gleaming knife to his throat… He would not so easily forget the hard voice that had spoken so cruelly and mercilessly to him.

He groaned as more memories flooded his mind, including memories of his injuries. At this turn of thought, his body suddenly flared with pain so intense that it brought tears to his eyes and a groan to his lips. Even if he hadn't been secured in place to the chair, he knew right then that he wouldn't have been able to move at all.

For some minutes he dwelled on his misfortunes with a melancholic air. It was then that he truly felt small and weak and helpless, like some pathetic, young animal that couldn't find its way home.

As fate would have it, that was the time when Seregon, Desmond and Reynard chose to make their grand entrance. They entered through the door and stood in a row, staring down at Frodo with hard faces. As he looked up at them, he wished they would stop randomly splitting into three Desmonds, three Reynards and three Seregons.

"We meed again, my liddle rad," said Desmond in a harsh voice. Frodo shivered, whether out of fear or because he was so cold, he did not know.

"And now we have a little task for you," said Seregon softly. Frodo did not like the tone in his voice one bit. "You are to write a letter to your friend, the King. We will tell you what to say. You are to write only what we tell you to. Do you understand?"

Frodo groaned inwardly. He didn't think he would be able to hold a quill or a pen, let alone write with it. He felt so horribly weak… He just wanted to close his eyes again and go to sleep…

"Please," he murmured. His voice was shockingly raspy and could barely be heard. Yet that was as loud as he could speak. "I don't think I could. I feel terribly weak. If I could just have some food… It might give me some energy."

"Had enouv energy der go gallivandin' round da cidy dough," said Desmond angrily. "If yeh gould run ub do da gades, yeh gan wride a ledder."

"I dunno Des," said Reynard slowly. "'E _does_ look pretty bad."

"That's his own fault," said Seregon. "If he is not going to be obedient, then he is going to suffer the consequences. He will write the letter now." With that said, Seregon drew out a knife and slit through the bonds securing Frodo's right arm to the arm of the chair. He then pushed a tray holding a grimy piece of old parchment, a quill and a small bottle of ink onto Frodo's lap. "Now write. _Dear Elessar-_"

"But-"

"But _what_, halfling?" thundered Seregon. Frodo was looking down at his right hand fearfully.

"I – I've never written with only four fingers before," rasped Frodo. "I don't know if I could do it-"

"YEH'LL DO ID IF YEH KNOW WHAD'S GOOD FER YEH!" barked Desmond. Frodo jumped and found himself picking up the quill quite before he knew what was happening. With extreme difficulty, he wrapped his fingers around the writing tool and dipped it into the ink with a trembling hand.

"_Dear Elessar_," repeated Seregon sharply. Frodo began to write, though he would never know how he managed it. But even as he pressed the quill to the parchment, another plan formed in his foggy mind. Seregon continued to dictate to him.

"_I have been taken by two Men and am being held in their custody. They-_"

"WHAD DA BLOODY HELL DO YEH THINK YER DOIN'!" Seregon and Reynard turned to Desmond who had sprung over to Frodo and snatched the parchment from the tray. He glared at the words then turned that glare to Frodo. "WHAD'S DIS NONSENSE YER WRIDING?"

"It's how we learnt to write, where I come from," croaked Frodo weakly. "It's Elvish."

"Write in the Common Tongue," ordered Seregon.

"I don't know how," murmured Frodo feebly. Desmond gave a strangled sound of fury.

"Dis is gedding ridiculous!" he cried. "Seregon, why don' _you_ wride da stubid ledder?"

"It's too late now," snapped Seregon in deep displeasure. "He's already started writing like that, he'll have to continue. This is the only parchment we've got and we can't wait for morning to get more. The letter has to be in the King's hands at breakfast." Desmond growled and put the parchment back on the tray before pacing irately around the attic. Seregon continued to dictate.

"_They say that they will safely hand me over to you in exchange for_…" Seregon paused and turned to the other two. "How about six sacks of gold pieces?"

"_Six_?" exclaimed Desmond, his eyes widening voraciously

"That means two sacks each," said Seregon.

"I say nine," said Reynard softly. Desmond and Seregon stared at him. "'E's the King of the bloody West!" argued Reynard defensively. "'E'll be able t' afford three more sacks of gold."

"Alright," agreed Seregon. He turned back to Frodo. "_In exchange for nine sacks full of gold pieces_._ The exchange is to take place_… Shall we say the day after tomorrow?"

"At night," said Reynard.

"Obviously," said Seregon more than a little impatiently. He turned back to Frodo. "_To take place on the night of May the sixth_. _Be at the public gardens in the fifth circle at __midnight_._ Come alone_._ If you do not follow these instructions properly, the men will kill me_._ Make sure that you bring all of the gold with you_. How does that sound?" Seregon glanced over his shoulder at Desmond and Reynard.

"Sounds fine do me," grumbled Desmond.

"Did you get all of that, halfling?" said Seregon icily. Frodo wrote one more word before he put the quill down and gave a small nod. "Now sign it…" Frodo signed the bottom of the parchment with his name. Seregon's lips curled up into a disdainful smile. "So you _do_ have a name," he said. "What would it be?"

"Frodo Baggins," mumbled Frodo reluctantly.

"Frodo Baggins," said Seregon, trying the name out for himself. "Interesting… But remember this, _Frodo_ – if I ever find out that you wrote differently to what I said, you _will_ wish that you had never been born. Do I make myself clear?" Frodo gave another listless nod. Seregon's smile grew. "Good. Now let's make sure that message sticks in your mind. You seem to have a problem with following instructions. Reynard – find something to gag his mouth with. Desmond – You can have your bit of fun first."

Frodo's brows furrowed in confusion. His cloudy mind couldn't quite comprehend what Seregon was talking about. But then he found a rag being stuffed unceremoniously into his mouth. As he looked around bewilderedly, Seregon drew out his knife and cut the rest of the bonds that tied Frodo to the chair. He said nothing when the blade bit through the hobbit's wrist, drawing out blood that contrasted strangely against Frodo's snow-white skin. The poor hobbit barely had time to realise what was happening when he found the chair being pulled from beneath him. He went crashing to the ground, tray and all. His hands flew out to catch himself, but so weak was he that he crumpled to the floor helplessly. The Men howled with laughter. As he tried to pick himself up, Frodo noticed that some of his blood had splattered onto the letter. He gave a mental groan. So much for hoping that the others wouldn't get too worried…

He had very little time to dwell on this, however, before it became apparent that it was the least of his problems. Desmond stepped forward, brandishing a heavy cane. As the Man dealt blow after blow, Frodo wished more than ever before, that some mercy would be granted on him, and he would lose all consciousness.

* * *

Pippin shifted restlessly in his sleep. He was dreaming that he was back at home in the Great Smials. His sister, Pervinca, had just gotten mud all over her new dress and was getting into deep trouble from their mother. Normally such a dream would have put a smile on his sleeping face, as it was usually _Pippin_ that was getting into trouble for spoiling clothes. But he found it difficult to smile when some strange force kept pushing and kicking him. Just as his mother sent Pervinca to go and change into some clean clothes, Pippin found himself falling…

Pippin awoke with a sharp gasp. Rubbing his eyes into clearer focus, he found that he had somehow ended up on the floor with half his body entangled in sheets and covers. For a moment he sat there contemplating how he had fallen out of bed, when he heard a strange noise coming from above him. The young hobbit quickly got to his feet and climbed back onto the mattress. There, he found the answer to his questions.

Merry was entangled in the sheets even worse than Pippin had been. He was tossing and turning and lashing out with arms and legs, occasionally giving a grunt or a whimper. Though this might have looked somewhat amusing to any other audience, it disturbed Pippin. Merry was not one to move around so in his sleep – unless he was suffering from a truly terrible nightmare. The Took quickly grabbed a flailing hand in his own and clutched it to his heart.

"Merry," he said softly. "Merry, wake up!" Merry did not respond.

"Merry!" said Pippin more loudly and with more desperation. "Merry wake up! _Please_ wake up!" He shook his cousin's shoulders as roughly as he dared. But still Merry would not awaken.

"_MERRY_!" shouted Pippin as loudly as he could. This was getting ridiculous. Pippin had resolved to go and fetch Aragorn when several things happened at once.

"_NOOOOOOOOOOO_!" Merry had sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes as round as saucers as he stared at something that only he could see. Cold sweat dripped down his forehead and his pale body trembled.

A split second later, the door burst open and the rest of the Fellowship piled into the room. For the second time that night, Pippin fell off the bed in surprise with a loud squawk. Sam helped him climb back to his feet while Aragorn quickly moved to Merry's side.

"What happened?" he asked at once. For a moment Merry stared at Aragorn, as if he was someone the hobbit recognised – but could not remember. He turned his gaze to Pippin and Sam, his grey eyes pleading. In that instant, the two hobbits understood.

"What's happened to Mr Frodo?"

* * *

The Men were roaring with laughter. As they tormented and humiliated their prisoner, him being less than half their size as it was, they laughed so hard that tears poured down their faces. And when the prisoner lay in a bloody and bruised heap on the cold floor, no longer being able to find it in himself to react to the blows that were dealt him, still the Men laughed. The sight was enough to make any decent person sick to the stomach.

But the prisoner? He could no longer even think for the incessant pounding in his head. But he could remember. The vile faces of the Men were constantly turning into the faces of Orcs, and the attic morphed into an evil dark chamber in a black land. As his captors dealt him blow after blow after blow, all hope faded from his being.

* * *

"That's enough for now," said Seregon. Reynard dropped the belt he had been holding with a sigh. Desmond, however, didn't look inclined to do anything of the sort.

"Who says yer in charge?" he demanded.

"Me," said Seregon coldly. "If you don't like that, then you can get out of my house." Desmond growled but nevertheless, he let the cane clatter to the ground. Seregon glared at him for a moment before turning back to the prisoner. The Man could barely believe that the halfling was still conscious. He frowned, wondering if this meant anything, then picked him up and tied him back to the chair.

"Let that be a lesson to you," he muttered in a steely voice. "If you don't do as you're told, then you will suffer the consequences." The prisoner did not respond. Seregon regarded him for a moment longer before he stood up fully and turned back to the other two.

"Where's the letter?" he said. Reynard picked it up from the ground and handed it to Seregon. The Man looked over it. The bloodstains made some of it hard to read – but no doubt the King would get the message. He smirked to himself and folded the letter up. He snatched up one of the candles that had been brought up with them, and poured some wax on the letter to seal it closed. He handed it to Reynard.

"Make sure that this is in the King's hands in the morning," he said. Reynard nodded. "And whatever you do, _make sure that you are not seen_." Reynard grinned and disappeared out of the attic. Neither Seregon nor Desmond heard him leave the house.

The two remaining Men looked over at the halfling as if he was some offending object lying in the stinking gutters of the streets. They tied him back to the chair then left him, moving themselves to the parlour. Seregon resumed his seat in the best chair, and returned to staring at the fire. Desmond stood glaring about himself moodily.

"What now?" he wanted to know. Seregon's lips curled up into a smile.

"Now we wait."

* * *

Reynard was very good at two things. He was good at tracking and he was good at making himself avoid the unwanted eye. He would have made a rather good Ranger if he had not chosen to walk down another path.

It therefore did not take him very long to reach the seventh circle. By then he was feeling quite pleased with himself. He had managed to avoid at least two dozen guards as well as a few people making their way to their shops to start opening up in time for the morning influx of customers. Though if this miserable weather kept up, it was unlikely that anyone would be making much money.

But now Reynard was approaching unfamiliar territory. He had only been to the citadel a couple of times, and very long ago at that. He did not know where the dining hall was, or how he was going to get the letter onto the King's place so that it was not disturbed by the wrong person.

Drawing his cloak closer to his body, he silently slunk across the courtyard and edged his way around the sturdy walls of the palace. If memory served him well, there should be a side door somewhere about that the servants used when they brought produce back from the markets. That side door would probably lead Reynard somewhere close to the kitchens, which meant that he would be somewhere close to the dining hall.

His hand brushed against wood and caught on a cool metal handle. Smiling triumphantly to himself, he pressed his ear against the door to listen for anything living immediately beyond it. As far as he could tell, all was silent from within. Slowly and cautiously, he pulled on the handle and opened the door.

Luck was on his side this morning. The hallway he entered was completely deserted. For a moment he wondered at that. Soldiers usually guarded all of the entrances into the palace. Perhaps they were out searching for Seregon and his fellow escapees? Or maybe they just didn't want to stand out in the rain getting soaked to the bone. Reynard shrugged and continued on his way. After all, it didn't matter to him why the guards weren't where they should have been. Just as long as he wasn't seen…

He padded down the hall on silent feet. Sharp ears caught the sound of conversing voices from within a nearby room. His mouth began watering as the aroma of baking bread wafted to his nose. The King had it made up here. All he had to do was sit on his throne all day and let the servants and guards run about doing his bidding. Reynard grinned to himself. It wouldn't be long before _he_ could receive such treatment too.

He made his way right up to what had to be the kitchen doors and paused. The entrance to the dining hall should be somewhere close by… As he looked about him, he suddenly noticed that the double doors almost directly opposite himself were ajar. He moved to the gap and peered into the room within.

Well… He had certainly found the dining hall all right. The room was _enormous_. It was furnished with a grand table big enough to seat a small army, as well as several smaller tables that must be there to seat the less important guests of the palace. Serving tables lined the walls, designed to hold food and extra dishes. At the moment, they were dressed with the same articles as the grand table – cutlery and crockery, all of very fine make of course.

The first golden rays of dawn bled through the receding storm clouds, making the silverware gleam. For a moment Reynard considering nicking a couple of spoons and forks. It wasn't as though the King was going to run out of them anytime soon. But he decided to withhold temptation. He would be able to afford his own silver spoons soon enough.

He forced his mind back onto the task at hand. He probably didn't have too long before more servants entered to continue preparing the hall for the diners to come. He made a beeline to the head of the grand table. The King's place had been fully set and would not be disturbed until he filled it with food. _Excellent_! Reynard took the letter from a pocket and wondered where to put it… Aha! Under the napkin that rested on the bread and butter plate. When the King sat down to his meal, he would put the napkin on his lap and would immediately see the letter. Grinning victoriously, Reynard set the letter carefully in its new place and was just turning to leave when he heard approaching voices. Without another thought, he dove under the table, well hidden by the chairs and long white tablecloth. He counted two pairs of feet enter through the doors and move to the serving tables.

"Honestly Evelyn," said an exasperated female voice. "I don't know _what_ you're goin' on about."

"Well of course _you_ wouldn't!" argued a second female voice, Evelyn, Reynard presumed. "You haven' bin cleanin' the King's quarters! I'm tellin' you, something's goin' on. Something other than those escaped prisoners runnin' about the city I mean. I overheard His Lordship talking with Lord Mithrandir and Lord Faramir. I reckon somethin's happened to one of the guests – somethin' real bad. They sounded awfully worried."

"You was listenin' to the King's conversations!" gasped the first female in a scandalised whisper. "Elyn, _what_ were you thinkin'? What if they'd caught you? You'd be out of a job for sure!"

"Well it's not like you're any better, Iortae," snapped Evelyn rather irritably. The two women moved to the smaller tables – apparently to finish setting them, mused Reynard, by the sounds of clinking china. "You're always listenin' to what them Lords is sayin'." Iortae muttered something under her breath that Reynard couldn't quite catch. Evelyn started laughing.

"Well that's fine language for a young lass like yourself to use!" she said. "Don't let anyone else hear you or _you'll_ be out of a job." Iortae muttered something else that Evelyn chose to ignore by continuing with her speech. "But you have to admit that _somethin's_ going on. I noticed more of the guards than usual were bein' sent out into the lower circles. And the King and his special friends have been actin' strangely if you ask me – haven't been sleepin' well, if they've been sleepin' at all. You should've seen the state of their beds when I went to change the linens! And how about His Majesty requestin' such an early breakfast? Lord Denethor, bless his soul, was _never_ such an-"

"_Now that's enough_!" Iortae's voice cut through Evelyn's like a butcher's knife. Evelyn fell silent at once. "You have no business speakin' of the Lords in such a way! Now shut your mouth and get back to work like a good lass before I report you!"

Now it was Evelyn's turn to mutter incoherently under her breath. But Iortae said not another word. The two women continued their tasks in silence before exiting the dining hall. As soon as he was sure that they were gone, Reynard crawled out from under the table and made his way back to Seregon's house in the first circle.

* * *

After the events of Merry's dream had been retold, none of the Fellowship slept much for the second night running. When morning came, Aragorn would send out a full search for the missing Ringbearer.

The hobbits remained together in Merry and Pippin's room for the rest of the night. Though they were all exhausted beyond comprehension, none of them slept another wink. Instead, they sat on Merry's bed in glum silence, occasionally exchanging a few words, voicing questions and formulating possible answers. But they did not waste their breaths on reassurances.

Though hobbits in general always sort to comfort others in times of need, whether the situation was dire or not so, these three had been through enough to know when reassurances were completely and utterly useless. They were all just as worried as each other – and they all knew it. And there was a very good reason to be. So it was no use saying that everything would be alright – when they had no idea whether it would. Instead they remained chiefly in silence, whiling away the rest of the night in their small huddle – taking at least a small bit of comfort in the company of each other.

As the storm slowly dissipated, they tried hard not to dwell on what Frodo must be suffering in his lonely state on such a fearful night. When at last dawn cracked through the cloak of night, the three decided they might as well get up and see if the bounty of the dining hall would offer them any solace.

If this had been any other day, they would have been quite surprised at the number of people already in the hall at such an early hour. But as it was, their registration of such a thing was only mild. They sat in their usual places on the long grand table, looking up to the head (as was their wont) to see if Gandalf or Aragorn was there. Both were present. Indeed, the whole Fellowship currently residing in the seventh circle was present in the hall at that time, though Gandalf and Aragorn had only arrived a couple of minutes before the hobbits. They had spoken long into the night and had not gone back to sleep either, though both were considerably better at hiding their weariness than the hobbits. They were even now currently deep in conversation with Faramir and Éomer. Not finding this remotely interesting or unusual, the hobbits turned their attention to piling their plates with food.

As they applied themselves to their meal, the four Lords at the head of the table shook out their napkins and placed them over their laps. Aragorn's already grim face darkened further as his eyes caught site of the filthy letter resting almost innocently on his plate. His three surrounding fellows fell still and silent as they watched him pick it up and break open the unmarked seal.

Always one to sense even the slightest of shifts in a mood, Samwise looked up from his plate with a frown. The room suddenly felt tense and expectant. He looked down the table and his eyes widened. Merry and Pippin soon followed his gaze to watch Aragorn reading a piece of grubby parchment. With each word he read, the King continued to pale until he reached the end and made a strange and very uncharacteristic choking sound. The hall was now completely reticent.

"Aragorn?" said Gandalf quietly. "What does it say?"

Aragorn opened his mouth and attempted to speak several times, but only succeeded in producing the queer choking sound once more before he abruptly got to his feet and left the hall through a side door that led to a small chamber. The Fellowship, Faramir, Éomer and Éowyn quickly followed.

Aragorn was pacing the chamber in such a manner that spoke volumes to those who knew him. The letter was clutched tightly in one trembling hand.

"Aragorn," spoke Gandalf again, this time more urgently. "What does it say?"

Aragorn spun to face the wizard, his eyes glittering with a tempest of emotions. "_What does it say_?" he choked. He held out the letter for Gandalf to take. "Read it for yourself!"

With a frown, Gandalf took the letter. "It's in Elvish," he said softly.

"Read it!" said Aragorn again. Gandalf cleared his throat and read in a clear voice for all present to hear.

"_My Dear Friends, I am so sorry for the worry I must be causing you, but I have been kidnapped by two Men – Desmond and Reynard. They are holding me in a house in one of the lower circles (I don't know which circle exactly) of the city. They and another Man named Seregon want Aragorn to come alone to the public gardens in the fifth circle at __midnight__ on May 6. They want you to bring nine full sacks of gold pieces. But please, I beg of you, _do not give them the money_! The city cannot afford to lose so much gold when so many reparations still need to be made from the war. _Do not worry about me_! The Men will not harm me overmuch – if they kill me they won't get anything after all. But don't you dare exchange all of that money just for me. The gold will not be put to any sort of good use whatsoever. The welfare of the city is your first priority, Aragorn. And to Sam, Merry and Pippin – DON'T YOU DARE TRY ANYTHING ON YOUR OWN! DO AS ARAGORN AND GANDALF SAY OR I WILL SEE TO IT SOME WAY OR ANOTHER THAT SHADOWFAX DRAGS YOU ALONG THE GROUND FROM THE CITY TO THE SHIRE! But now I'm afraid I must finish writing this letter. Hopefully the Men won't suspect too much (I told them that hobbits only knew how to write in Elvish). Farewell my friends – Frodo_."

There was a pause as Gandalf's voice died into the air. The group stood in a sorrowful circle with their heads bowed. At last Pippin looked up. Over the past six months he had had to summon more courage within himself than he had thought was possible. But now the knowledge of everything he had learnt on the Quest seemed to evaporate from his being. He felt like a scared tweenager again, not fully understanding what was going on. But he did know that Frodo was in trouble and that something had to be done about it. He looked around at the gloomy faces about him.

"What are we going to do now?" he asked in a small voice.

TBC

* * *

_A/N: Phew! Well that's another chapter down and there's still so much more to go! My thanks to Lexi for her help (you're still my angel!) :D Sorry again for the delay in updating. Coursework and homework have been killing me and exams are just about to start, so I'm afraid there's going to be another delay with the next chapter. My deepest apologies for leaving you all hanging like that, but I will update as soon as I can so you can all find out what happens to Frodo next._

_Breon Briarwood – Surely you must be losing your voice by now from all of this chanting?! Hehehe. On any account, I'm glad and relieved to hear that the story's not a tremendous disappointment. :D Trouble for the guard, eh? Well there's something to consider for later… Hehehe. And I agree, go Frodo for putting up a fight alright! Although now he doesn't have the advantage of being underestimated. Let's see how that will shape things… I'll try and update for you as quickly as I can. :)_

_Cheese – Hahaha. Well if I can turn you, Rach, then my work is done! :D And you really should watch it! It's THE BEST! :D Well… you know my views on LOTR. Hehehe._

_Elijahs-gurl – Thanks very much! :) And we all adore Frodo… there's just something about that hobbit that makes us wanna hug him – don't you agree? Though I feel rather guilty for putting him through all of this :( But thank you very much for your encouragement – it's greatly appreciated. :)_

_FrodoBaggins87 – Thank you very much for your kind words! I'm so glad you're enjoying it. And Frodo most certainly does have more in store for him, so watch this space… Thank you also for your email. Your wonderful words of encouragement were truly touching and I am so happy to know that this story is being enjoyed so much. Your constructive criticism has been taken into account and I hope I can improve my work with time. :) Thank you for actually taking the time to write both email and review! Hehehe – I feel so loved! :P_

_Graphite ZK – Yep, Seregon's bringing out the goods now, so to speak. And in this chapter we finally see Reynard being somewhat useful to his fellow baddies. Glad that it's getting more interesting, hopefully I'll be able to keep that up. ;)_

_heartofahobbit – Seregon really has turned things around, hasn't he? I wonder how he's going to effect things later on… Hmmm… there's something to think about. But he's certainly effecting things now! As to Frodo's perseverance… You are absolutely right in saying that it is one of his greatest qualities… but you're also right in that everyone has a breaking point. I think now he has been pushed to that limit and he is once more beginning to crumble. The big difference, though, between now and when he was bearing the Ring, is Sam. It will be interesting and possibly heartbreaking to see how Frodo does or does not survive without Sam constantly being by his side to keep him going. So watch this space to find out what happens next… And I am somewhat relieved to hear you compliment the "flow and ease" of my writing. With chapter nine and ten particularly I've had real trouble making it all flow together as it should, and I have been quite worried about making it sound right. So thank you very much for the reassurance. ;)_

_Indolosse – Hahaha. SHE PROCLAIMS HER LOVE! SCORE! Hehehe. Thanks Bronwyn. And go me for good writing! :D I just love those hobbits, especially when they're being so cute and cuddly. But who IS your favourite character? I can't put more of him in if I don't know who he is!_

_Iorhael – (sighs) Yes… Our favourite hobbit has been caught again. But just two more days until the exchange! Let's see if he can't hold up until then. Hopefully everything will run smoothly with no more complications… but we'll see. And you're very welcome for the return to Merry and Pippin. I just couldn't resist leaving them out for too long. ;)_

_Kaewi – Thank you very much! Glad to hear that the story's still okay ;) And yes, the potion has made its appearance at last! You've seen some more of the bag's contents in this chapter (the cane) and I have a feeling that more's going to be coming up, so watch out for that! And the guards… well it would just be too easy to have Frodo saved like that, wouldn't it. I'm glad you enjoyed the flashback at the end. I enjoyed writing it. I was originally going to end the chapter without putting it in, but it just didn't feel right. And you're absolutely right, Frodo is such an important figure in both the young hobbit's lives, as a cousin and friend. I just love them all! :D_

_Rose – Thank you, Rose. I'm glad you're enjoying it. More coming your way as soon as possible. :)_

_vorny – Hey siobhan! Glad you're enjoying it, hehehe. But I can't reveal too much or the story will be spoilt!_


	11. Shades of Grey

**_Every Man for Himself_**

****

_Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings and I am not making a profit out of this._

**Chapter 11: Shades of Grey**

It was late – very late. He knew this. He also knew that if he was caught out of bed at this time of night by the wrong relative, then he was in big trouble. But Frodo couldn't help feeling that something was terribly wrong. It was as though he was listening to a familiar song, but a few notes had been skipped and the beat was warped. So on silent hobbit feet, he crept down the hallway, seeking to find the answer to his unease.

It seemed to take forever to walk through the corridors of the enormous smial. But while he continued to take step after tentative step, it suddenly occurred to him that a lot of doors seemed to be opening and closing with loud and hasty slams. But not a single person did he see. His heart beating a little faster and his breath becoming shallower, he turned into another hallway that he knew led to the Master's study. Though his Uncle Rory was stern, he loved Frodo and usually tried to answer the young lad's perpetual stream of questions when he wasn't too busy. Frodo was certain that he would answer this one. That is, if he even _was_ in his study. After all, it was very late, and the party might still be going for all he knew.

Nevertheless, Frodo continued on to his uncle's study. As he came closer to it, he saw that the door was open just a crack, letting a shaft of warm golden light spill out into the otherwise rather dim hallway. For the first time, Frodo paused in his tracks. He could hear voices coming from within the room – and quite a few of them at that. He could even have sworn that he heard several sobs. His breath hitching painfully in his throat, he brought a slightly trembling hand to the door and knocked.

It was fully opened by his Aunt Asphodel. Looking up at her, Frodo saw that she was crying, her tears cascading down her puffy cheeks rather like two small waterfalls. Upon seeing him, she gave a choked sob and dropped to her knees, enveloping Frodo in a bone-crushing embrace.

To say the least, the young hobbit was rendered utterly speechless. He had _never_ known his Aunt Asphodel to shed even a single tear. She was simply not the crying type. But now he could feel her hot tears on his neck and soaking through his nightshirt so that he could feel them on his shoulder. For a moment he was paralysed, not having the faintest clue what to do, when Milo Burrows suddenly appeared and gently guided his mother to a seat.

With no one no longer clinging to his neck, Frodo was able to see that the study was more full than he had originally anticipated. Indeed, it looked as though the party had relocated to this very room. Though of course now it looked absolutely nothing like a party. For Frodo had never been to a party where everyone was crying.

"What's wrong?" he asked slowly. "What's happened?"

"Frodo," his Aunt Menegilda was speaking to him in a soft and gentle voice. Alarm bells immediately started ringing in Frodo's mind. Something was very seriously wrong – Aunt Menegilda _never_ spoke in a soft and gentle voice!

"W-what's happened?" repeated Frodo, looking desperately about for some sign of reassurance. Anything would do! It was very suddenly that he realised his parents weren't in the room. "Where's Mama and Da?" Aunt Menegilda swallowed and looked at her husband uneasily. Uncle Rory looked from her to Frodo, his sorrow showing in every fibre of his being.

"Frodo," he said in a quiet voice that trembled. "Come and sit down lad." Frodo suddenly felt very reluctant to move further into the room, as though it would somehow seal his fate. For a moment one of his hands clung onto the doorframe, yet some other power overruled the rest of his body, and his feet ended up guiding him to an empty chair in front of his uncle's desk. Frodo suddenly had the distinct feeling like he was being judged. He didn't dare look around him. Instead he kept his eyes glued to his uncle.

Rory gave a deep sigh before he sank heavily into his own chair. He regarded his young nephew with sorrowful eyes that bore an identical expression to everyone else in the room. Frodo felt frozen under that gaze. So bone-chillingly frozen.

"Frodo," said Uncle Rory. He looked as though he was choosing his words carefully. "There's been an accident, lad."

"What kind of accident?" asked Frodo slowly, though some part of him knew that he didn't want to find out.

"A boating accident," said Rory. "One of the boats… Well… You see, the current was rather rough today – rougher than usual and… well…"

"Where's Mama and Da?" asked Frodo again, not being able to conceal his rising fear from showing in his voice.

"They… They've…" Tears continued to spill down Rory's face. "They went out on one of the boats tonight… And… Well… I'm afraid that they… that… they're dead." Frodo blinked. He suddenly felt very faint. He could almost hear his world come crashing down around him.

"You're lying," he managed to choke.

"I wish I was," said Rory, his eyes lowering to stare at his desk.

"You are! You're lying!" Frodo's voice was rising. His heart was thumping painfully in his chest like a mallet. He was barely aware that he'd jumped to his feet. "Da doesn't like going boating! He never goes boating!"

"He went this evening with your mother," said Rory softly, still not looking up. "I'm so sorry, lad."

"_No_!" Frodo shook his head in pure denial. This was ridiculous! _This wasn't true_. His father _hated_ going on boats! He was terrified of them! Even if he _had_ gone boating, his mother was too clever at boat handling to ever let anything happen. Frodo vigorously shook his head again, backing towards the door.

"Frodo you have to believe me," said Rory almost desperately. "I wish it wasn't true, but the fact of the matter is – you're parents are dead."

"_NO_!"

And he was running. He ran past all of the crying relatives and out of the study. He ran down the ominously deserted hallways, past the closed doors until he recognised the door to his own guestroom. He fairly threw himself in and slammed the door shut behind him, diving onto the bed and curling up in a tight, quivering ball, his back to the door. He felt so very cold and empty. He didn't want to believe anything of what he had just heard. But some small fragment of his being knew that it was true, knew that he had felt the loss keenly from the moment he had awoken from his sleep. With the sickening coldness spreading from his stomach to the rest of his body, he felt tears of ice creeping down his face to be soaked up by his pillow. He didn't know how long he remained like that, but next thing he knew, someone was knocking softly on the door. It opened and he heard his cousin Saradoc calling his name.

"Frodo? Are you alright?"

At first Frodo didn't reply. He didn't want to. He just wanted to stay curled up in the bed for the rest of his life. Perhaps he would have if one question had not burned so fiercely in his mind. "Cousin Saradoc," he said in a hoarse whisper that could not possibly have come from him. "Why did this happen?" He felt the mattress shift as Saradoc sat down on it.

"I don't know, lad," he answered. "Sometimes these things just happen."

"Was it because I did something bad?"

"_No_! Frodo, none of this is your fault. It was an _accident_." There was a short pause as Frodo studied what he could see of the wall in front of him through the dying firelight.

"What's going to happen to me now?" he asked in a small voice. He jerked as Saradoc gave a harsh, almost cruel laugh behind him. Frodo froze. He knew that laugh. He had heard it somewhere before. His eyes widened and he flipped around in the bed. He was facing a hideous Orc Captain brandishing a whip in its clawed hands. A name penetrated his mind. _Gorbag_. Frodo's surroundings suddenly melted into a black chamber in an evil tower. He could feel the very air in his lungs become filthy with fumes and gases from the land outside. He struggled to breathe, taking gasping breaths. Still Gorbag cackled. Frodo tried to ignore him as best he could, but found it very difficult when the damned creature threw a bucket of ice-cold water over his already freezing body. He laughed even harder as some of the water was swallowed, going the wrong way down Frodo's windpipe, making him cough and splutter. But the coughing wouldn't stop.

Then he found himself spiralling down into a liquid fog. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He was so implausibly cold. And he was drowning…

* * *

_5 May 3019 – Morning_

Desmond looked up from the shot of whisky he had been pouring himself. A foreign sound met his ears. He stared up at the ceiling with a frown before he left the kitchen and met Seregon in the hallway. Without exchanging a single word, they climbed up the stairs to the attic and opened the door.

The prisoner both looked and sounded like he was trying to hack up a lung. He had already succeeded in coughing out the gag that had previously been stuffed in his mouth. "Now that's one nasty bark," murmured Desmond.

"He's faking it," snapped Seregon. He strode over to the halfling and roughly grabbed a fistful of dark, limp curls, still damp from the rain… and sweat. He pulled the prisoner's face up so he could look at it properly. It was not a pretty sight. Bruises had blossomed all across his face. His bottom lip was split, his eye black and swollen. Though it had been washed by the rainwater, the wound on the side of the halfling's temple had bled again and was now caked with blood. But beneath all of the bruises, Seregon saw in the morning light that the prisoner was deathly pale. He small body was wracked was shivers, yet he was sweating. Seregon released the halfling's hair and felt his forehead. It was burning. He cursed.

"He's ill," he snapped to Desmond.

"What we gonna do then?" asked Desmond. Seregon gazed down harshly at the prisoner, as though he would like nothing more than to kill the thing then and there, and so end his problems.

"Get a mug of water and a damp rag," said Seregon. "We're going to have to bring down his fever. And bring him a bite to eat. Anything will do." Desmond disappeared out of the attic, leaving Seregon glaring hatefully at the thing who was proving to be more of an inconvenience than anything else.

* * *

At Pippin's words, Sam and Merry lifted their eyes to look up expectantly at Gandalf and Aragorn. When neither of them said anything, Merry frowned in an uncanny imitation of his missing elder cousin and crossed his arms carefully over his chest.

"We _are_ going to do something," he said sharply. "Aren't we?"

Aragorn glanced over at Gandalf and Faramir before turning his uncomfortable gaze to the hobbits. "Merry," he said slowly. "There isn't much that we _can_ do…"

"_WHAT_?" All three hobbits stared up at the King in shock and pure denial.

"But…" Sam looked wildly around at the others. "But we have to do _something_! We can't just leave Mr Frodo to the mercy of those ruffians! I'm sorry sir, but I couldn't stand it. Not after-"

"I know, Sam," interrupted Aragorn carefully. "But… Frodo's right. We cannot afford to lose so much gold. Not now when-"

"So you're just going to let him be tortured by those Men!"

"Of course not, Pippin. But right now I don't-"

"Then what _are_ you going to do?"

"Merry I've only just-"

"If _you're_ not going to do anything than _we will_!"

"Pippin, you say that like it's a threat."

"Well maybe I am threatening you! But you can't expect us to do nothing when-"

"_ENOUGH_!" Everyone fell silent and stared at Gandalf. Aragorn mused that he would have to ask the wizard to give him lessons on how to speak to get such immediate reactions. The Istar eyed the hobbits sharply. "Now lads," he said in a reassuring voice. "I promise you that we are going to get Frodo back. We just need a little time to think things over carefully."

"But Gandalf-"

"_No_, Peregrin. Trust us on this one. I beg of you, heed Frodo's words and do not do anything unless we tell you to." Gandalf's voice held such an authoritative note, that none of the hobbits dared to say anything further on the matter. Instead, they hung their heads dejectedly and left the chamber, returning to the dining hall to pick at the rest of their breakfast. The Big Folk watched them leave, their own hearts as heavy as the little ones' feet.

"I think I am only just starting to appreciate how distracted hobbits can get," said Aragorn with a sigh.

"Why so?" asked Legolas with a quizzical frown.

"They paid no heed to the names of the kidnappers."

"What _are_ the names of the kidnappers?" asked Prince Imrahil.

"Desmond, Reynard and Seregon."

"_Seregon_?" exclaimed Faramir. "Things go very ill for Frodo."

"Ill indeed," agreed Gandalf, his eyes gazing down at the letter again. "And now _I_ am truly beginning to appreciate how small hobbits are."

"Why is that?" asked Éomer in confusion.

"They were not able to see the blood on this letter."

* * *

"Sam," said Merry in a low voice. "Think you'll be feeling up to an ale tonight?"

"I think I might at that, Mr Merry," said Sam, his round face set, his usually warm brown eyes glittering with a barely concealed fire.

"That's what I thought," said Merry with a grim smile.

"Uh-oh," said Pippin suddenly. The Big Folk had returned to the hall, and Faramir was making his way to the hobbits.

"Master Peregrin," he said. "I'm afraid your services will be needed today. Could you please be at the Guard Room in ten minutes?"

"Of course, my Lord," said Pippin, jumping down from his seat (and scattering cushions) to bow. Faramir nodded to him and the other hobbits before turning to leave.

"What's going on?" asked Merry. "I thought your shift wasn't until the afternoon?"

"Haven't you heard?" said Pippin in surprise. "Some prisoners escaped from the jailhouse last night. Guards have been raking the city all night trying to find them. They're only now starting to conduct a full search. Just about everyone's being taken off their usual posts."

"Does that mean you don't have to go on duty tonight?" asked Merry hopefully. Pippin shrugged his shoulders.

"No idea," he said. "But I'd better go or else I'll be late. Sam, if I don't see you later, then good luck."

"Thank you Master Pippin, sir," said Sam with a dejected sigh. "I think I'm going to need all the luck I can get."

* * *

Reynard was still feeling rather pleased with himself as he entered through the front door of the house. By now the King would've probably read the letter and would hopefully be working himself into a state about his missing friend.

"Des?" called Reynard, hoping to share his victory with someone, perhaps over a drink (even though it was really much too early).

"In the kitchen!" called Desmond. Reynard made his way to the kitchen and frowned as he saw his partner putting two slices of bread on a tray that already held a mug and a damp cloth.

"What yeh doin'?" asked Reynard.

"The blasted halflin's ill," said Desmond irritably. "Seregon says we gotta get 'is fever down."

"Why?" asked Reynard. "E's gonna be out of our hands by tomorrow night. Just leave 'im be!"

"Seregon thinks we should bring the fever down," snapped Desmond. He picked up the tray and made his way back to the attic.

"Who cares what bloody Seregon thinks!" hissed Reynard, following close behind. "'E wasn' in this at the beginnin'. This is _our_ job we're pullin' off. Not 'is. We shouldn' have ter listen ter him!"

"_No_!" growled Desmond in a low voice. "We're followin' 'is lead from now on. I learnt everythin' I know from 'im. Trust me, 'e knows what 'e's doin'."

"'E's prob'ly jus' gonna take all the money for 'imself and be off with it though!" protested Reynard.

"'E won't," replied Desmond sharply. He motioned for Reynard to open the attic door and the two entered. The halfling looked to be asleep, though he was mumbling and still shivering. Seregon was regarding him with hard, critical eyes, but looked up when the two Men entered.

"Were you seen?" he asked Reynard.

"No," answered the Man. "Got in and out without 'ny troubles. The King should've read it by now."

"Good," said Seregon absently, moving to the tray and picking up the mug of water and cloth. He gave the halfling a kick in the shin to wake him up. The small prisoner groaned and his eyes fluttered half open. "Drink this," ordered Seregon coldly. He thrust the mug to the halfling's lips and tipped it up far enough for him to drink. This Frodo did without complaint, though his mind couldn't quite comprehend what was happening. He also did not resist when Seregon placed the cool cloth on his brow, even though it caused him to shiver all the more.

"Reynard," said Seregon. "Give him the bread." Reynard scowled at Seregon's back, but nevertheless did so.

"Come on, halflin'," he coaxed. "We've got some nice bread fer yeh."

This time Frodo did resist. While a couple of hours ago he would have jumped at the prospect of food, now the very thought of it made him feel positively sick. He clamped his mouth and eyes tightly shut and turned his head away from the bread.

"Leave it if he doesn't want it," said Seregon. Reynard shrugged and returned the bread to the tray with a yawn.

"Well," he said. "If that's all, then I think I might turn in now. It's bin a long night."

"Yeah," said Desmond. "It has..." He turned to Seregon as Reynard disappeared out of the attic. "You won't mind if I-"

"Go," said Seregon. "I will watch him."

"Righ'… Yeah…" And Desmond too disappeared from the attic. Seregon soundlessly settled himself on an old dusty crate, cold eyes always trained on the small captive lost in the prison of his own fever induced dreams.

* * *

He was dreaming again. He was in Rivendell enjoying a peaceful morning with Bilbo. The two were sitting outside under one of the many intricately carved gazebos, enjoying a cup of tea and a smoke. They sat mostly in companionable silence, now and then exchanging a few words.

"My, but it is cold today," said Frodo, shivering as a gust of wind blew through the Elven refuge.

"Shall we go back indoors, lad?" said Bilbo. "We can't have you catching a chill. Elrond and Gandalf would both have my head." Frodo smiled and got to his feet, carrying his unfinished tea with him as he and his uncle returned into the warmth of the House. They made their way down the winding halls, always heading towards Bilbo's room. "You can have a look at the latest song I've written," the old hobbit was saying. "I'd like to hear what you think of it."

Frodo nodded distractedly, a small frown on his brow. He was still extraordinarily cold, despite that he was inside now and out of reach of the wind's icy breath. Perhaps he was catching a chill after all? Bilbo opened the door to his room, waiting for Frodo to go in first. He took one step in and froze in horror.

All of the air was ripped from his lungs as an icy fog encompassed him in its almost solid grip. He was no longer in Bilbo's room in Rivendell, but alone on a cold hillside on a black night.

Well… not completely alone…

Towering before him was a Nazgûl, its form so black that it was nothing but a silhouette against the night sky. Frodo stared up at it with wide, terrified eyes, waiting in a petrified stupor for it to bring its long knife down into his flesh. But it took its time. Its armoured hand gripped the Morgul-blade tightly, and did this wraith have lips, Frodo knew that they would have been curled up into a cold, cruel smile.

Then suddenly primal instinct descended upon him and he turned to flee, only to find his way impeded by a second wraith. He spun around wildly, and realised that he stood defenceless in a circle of nine Black Riders.

Hope abandoned him. He fell to the ground with the icy fog as his blanket. In a reflex action, he opened his mouth to scream as nine long knives at last pierced his flesh. But instead of sucking in air, the thick fog, like a guilty conscience, invaded his lungs and engulfed his heart and spirit and will, leaving the hobbit as nothing more than a powerless shell.

And darkness took over.

* * *

Seregon watched thoughtfully as the halfling became increasingly fretful and restless in his sleep. Had he not been tied to the chair, the Man did not doubt that he would be writhing about on the floor, being a danger unto himself. But as it was, the prisoner could only thrash his head from side to side. Though he somewhat made up for his lack of movement with his voice. He was frequently mumbling words that Seregon could not catch, sometimes even crying out as loud as his inflamed throat would allow. But as the halfling's nightmare peaked, he let out a blood-chilling scream that was ripped straight from the soul. In a flash, Seregon was on his feet and had his hand clamped over the hobbit's mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound.

Even as he did this Desmond and Reynard were bursting through the attic door, their eyes wide in surprise as they witnessed such a small and seemingly feeble being producing such a sound of raw pain and fear.

"Makes yeh wonder what's goin' on in that head of 'is," murmured Reynard to himself.

"One of you go and get that sleeping potion," ordered Seregon. "He'll have the whole city pounding on my door at this rate."

Without hesitation, Reynard disappeared down the stairs to retrieve the phial containing the potion. In record timing he returned and held it under Frodo's nose until he inhaled it and immediately went flaccid. Reynard corked the bottle and looked from Seregon to Desmond.

"What was _that_ all abou'?"

* * *

Aragorn had been pacing around the throne room for several good hours now. He had been wracking his brains, thinking of how he could save Frodo without having to lose so much precious gold. But each idea he came up with was as flawed as the next. There was simply no way to get around it without being discovered. He did not doubt that these kidnappers were experienced in their work and knew when they were being duped. They would take every precaution to ensure that their plan ran smoothly. They would not take any risks when the King of Gondor had been involved.

Aragorn continued to pace as the hours drew past and the day grew old. As the sun began to sink beneath the horizon, he sighed and requested for Gandalf and Faramir to come to him.

"Have either of you had any ideas on how to solve our problem?" asked Aragorn heavily.

"If we knew where these Men were," said Faramir heavily. "Then we could go to their house and arrest them now. However, as we don't know where they are, I think we will just have to do as they wish and pay the ransom." Aragorn sighed heavily while Faramir shook his head in remorse. "So much money lost," he said. "I am, of course, willing to do anything to ensure the safety of Master Baggins. But it is still a lot of money."

For several long moments, the three stood in silence, each feeling the dragging burden of their decision. But they did each agree with Faramir's words – they would go to any lengths to save the Ringbearer.

"Come," said Aragorn at last. "I hear the supper bell ringing. Let us eat now. We will need to keep up our strength. I have a feeling that tomorrow is going to be a long and hard day."

The Men and Wizard moved to the dining hall where the many guests of the citadel were congregating. But even as Aragorn and Faramir took their seats, Gandalf's eyes narrowed and honed on two small figures taking their usual places at the table.

"Meriadoc," said Gandalf, the sharpness in his voice making the hobbits jump. "Where is Samwise?" Merry and Pippin exchanged a swift look before Merry turned fully to the wizard.

"He said he wasn't hungry so he decided to go to bed already. He said he would need the extra sleep anyway, as he won't be getting much tomorrow night."

Both Aragorn and Gandalf frowned. Samwise Gamgee was never one to encourage a missed meal. Except, of course, in Mordor when the provisions had been very short. But this was not Mordor and the food was plentiful. Was Sam really so tired? He probably _had_ been worrying himself into a state over Frodo, though, and with the news that the letter brought the very last thing on his mind would probably be food. So Gandalf and Aragorn took their places at the table and delved into the meal, thinking nothing more of the gardener's absence or of the hushed conversation between Merry and Pippin who were paying much less attention to their food than was acceptable by hobbit standards.

* * *

When Desmond and Reynard awoke, it was late afternoon and the sun was setting. Upon getting out of bed, the two splashed their faces and necks with water, chasing away the last remnants of sleep. Feeling much refreshed, they trooped up to the attic to see how things were with Seregon and the halfling.

"'E don't look much better," mused Reynard as he stared at the prisoner's fever-flushed face.

"He's worse," said Seregon sullenly. "The fever has risen. I must admit, I'm now at a loss at what to do. This sort of thing is in a woman's field of work. I am no nurse or healer."

"A woman's field eh?" said Desmond thoughtfully. He suddenly turned to Reynard. "Arlyn's the nurse type, don't yeh think?"

"Aye," said Reynard. "I'd say she'd know a thing or two 'bout lookin' after the poorly. Shall I go an' bring 'er in?"

"No!" said Desmond at once. "Yeh know she won' do anythin' yeh say. Asides, yeh'd get too distracted. _I'll_ go an' get 'er."

"Who in Eru's name is _Arlyn_?" demanded Seregon in a commanding tone.

"One o' the barmaids at the 'Silver Springs'," explained Desmond.

"Can she be trusted?" asked Seregon. "Surely she will ask questions?"

"She knows that we're up ter somethin'," said Desmond. "But she don't know what exactly. But she won't spill anythin'. I gave 'er a fair warnin'." Seregon looked sceptical.

"Alright then," he said after a moment's consideration. "Bring her in. But if she breathes a word to the guards I will personally kill her and the two of you with my bare hands."

* * *

Pippin had returned from the search too late to see Sam off. While he had returned just as the supper bell was ringing, Sam had departed for the lower circles as the sun was setting – the most likely time for patrons to start visiting an inn after a hard day's work.

That was where Sam was now. Back at the Silver Springs Inn. Merry had been able to give him the passwords to the circles, so he had had no trouble getting past the guards – though a few of them had raised some eyebrows. But now he was sitting in a dark, neglected corner, nursing an ale as his eyes watched all those who entered and exited the tavern. Upon entering himself, he had accosted one of the barmaids who said she knew both Desmond and Reynard. Quite willing to help Sam, she had agreed to somehow inconspicuously point them out to him if they should enter.

An hour had passed since then and the sky outside had grown dark. The inn was busy this eve, and the small hobbit had trouble keeping his eyes on the door and the bar, should the barmaid signal to him. He was beginning to lose hope of ever catching the two Men when suddenly he caught sight of the barmaid speaking to a dark-haired man. She didn't look in the least bit pleased to see him. On the contrary – she was backing as far away from him as she could. Sam sat up a little straighter in his seat, wondering if this could possibly be one of the kidnappers. His question was soon answered when the Man grabbed the barmaid's wrist, and began leading her rather forcefully to the door of the tavern. The barmaid looked over to Sam, gave the slightest of nods and then disappeared out the door. Samwise was not far behind.

As he followed the two, Sam reflected on how this night could not have been more different from the previous. Tonight the sky was clear and blanketed with Varda's jewel encrusted mantle. For a moment Sam paused to gaze up at the stars, relishing in their simple beauty. He suddenly felt his hope swell from deep within him. He continued on, carefully shadowing the Man and barmaid.

* * *

"Desmond!" huffed Arlyn as she tried to keep up with the man. "What's goin' on?"

"Shut up!" hissed Desmond roughly. "Yeh'll find out soon enough. Now stay quiet or else yeh won' live ter regret it!"

Arlyn needed no more encouragement and fell silent at once. But Sam, keeping to the shadows not too far behind them, fought to restrain a fearful yelp. If this was how one of the Men normally treated a barmaid, he hated to think how three of them must be treating his master.

He quickened his steps.

The distance walked from the inn to the Men's house was a journey that felt to Sam like some horrible dream from memories locked deep in the recesses of his mind. This scenario was far too similar to others for his liking. But at long last, Desmond and Arlyn slowed down and stopped outside the door to a rather dilapidated looking abode. As they disappeared through the front door, Sam stared up at the house and moved around it, carefully taking in every major detail he could. The house was made of the same stone as the rest of the city, and was covered in a coat of paint that had once been white and was now peeling away in vast clumps. The front door was heavy and made out of some sort of dark wood, though there was evidence of rotting. Weeds and mould lined most of the perimeter of the house so that Sam's fingers itched to pull them out. He sighed to himself as he longed, now more than ever, to return to the gardens of Bag End with his master, in Hobbiton where they both belonged. No more Buckland and Crickhollow. His master's place was in the study of the best smial in the Shire, just as his place was in the gardens. He felt another pang of penitence as he dwelled on how overgrown the flowerbeds must be by now. He sighed again. His gaffer was going to give him the scolding of his life when he returned.

Returning to the present, Sam's eyes drifted up the walls, noting how high the mould accumulation rose – very high indeed! These walls were far overdue for a good scrubbing and a new coat of paint. And the windows could do with a thorough cleaning too.

Sam suddenly stiffened as his eyes met the topmost window of the house. He could just make out a grimy light glowing from within – the only light in the dwelling. Was that where those Men were now? Was that where they were keeping his master? Sam resisted the almost overpowering urge to break into the house then and there. He swallowed thickly and tore his eyes back to the ground. He couldn't help Mr Frodo right now. He had to wait. He had to get back to the citadel and tell Mr Merry and Master Pippin where their cousin was being held.

With one last look at the house before him, Sam turned and ran back up the street towards the gates of the circle, back towards the citadel.

TBC 

* * *

_A/N: My thanks to Lexi and Bronwyn for their help. You guys rule! Hehehe. And thank you to those of you who have been reviewing. Your words have been my real inspiration to carry on, so keep it up! ;) Again I apologise for taking so long to update – I know how frustrating it can be when you want to know what happens next! But I've been studying like crazy, especially for my Maths GCSE exams (I swear that I will one day hunt down my non-calculator paper and condemn it to the Void to reside with Morgoth for all eternity!!!) And next week I've got my normal end-of-year exams, so joyous of occasions for me! (that last comment was sarcastic btw;) ) But enough about all of that depressing rubbish!_

_Breon Briarwood – When I read your request to whack Frodo on the head, I will admit that I stared at the computer screen for a minute in surprise. Of course, then I read on and starting laughing (partially with relief). As mentioned above, Aragorn would do just about anything he could to get Frodo back safe and sound. And as you have seen, his warning to his fellow hobbits was completely useless as they were always going to do what they could to save him no matter what. So you must be right – Frodo's fever is getting the better of him. (sighs) Poor hobbit. Aaah well. We'll soon see what happens. (sends over packet of strepsils) That should keep you going with your chanting on any account. ;):P_

_Elijahs-gurl__ – Hmmm. I'll see if I can get Aragorn the Healer to look at your computer shall I? Lol. Thank you for your encouraging words. Frodo has a lot of experiences in his life to make comparisons with now, doesn't he? And I think the suspense is going to be building up even further over the next few chapters – after all, the exchange is looming up quickly now! And you are not the first to ask whether I will be writing any other fics after this one. I have several ideas (all LOTR-centred) and have began writing a couple of them. But my main focus is on this fic, so I'm not sure when I'll be posting anything new. But keep an eye on my bio page for updates._

_FrodoBaggins87 – (gapes in amazement) WOW! I am honoured beyond words to hear that you are enjoying this so much that you were actually late for Tae Kwon Do! I really DO feel loved! Thank you SO MUCH for your words, they have truly touched me! Hehehe – I can't stop grinning now! Glad to hear that my writing's improved, and I hope the standards don't lower. ;) As to the Elvish – well I thought I would put a bit of a different element to the whole traditional 'Frodo gets kidnapped by bad men for ransom' thing. He is, after all, a highly intelligent hobbit (even when he's sick). And he isn't completely helpless – so there you have it! :D But don't worry about rape. I don't plan on putting any rape in any of my fics. I think the torture is going just fine as it is too. ;) PS: I will try and update quicker in the future just for you. :D_

_Kaewi__ – Hahaha. Yes – knowledge and realisation at last! And no, I haven't forgotten about the blood, as you might have spotted in this chapter. But expect more on it in the next chapter! ;)_

_Lexi__ – Hahahahahahahahaha. Thank you muchly for your timeless words! I'm sure that Nobel Prize is on its way now! :P_


	12. Countdown

**_Every Man for Himself_**

****

_Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or anything related to Lord of the Rings. I am not making any money from this… Damn! :P_

**Chapter 12: Countdown**

_5 May 3019 – Late Night_

"You don't suppose he got lost or something do you?" wondered Pippin fearfully.

"Of course not," reasoned Merry. "He's got too much sense to get lost. I bet he's even now making his way back here."

"But Merry," said Pippin, green eyes widening. "What if he's not? What if something's happened to him? What if those Men caught him? What if-"

"Pippin will you be quiet!" said Merry sharply. "Those thoughts have been crossing my mind too since he left – I don't need to be reminded of them even more."

"Sorry Merry." Pippin heavily sat himself down on the ground. His elder cousin sighed and joined him.

"It's alright Pip," he said gently. "I'm sure we're worrying for nothing. After all, Sam managed to find Frodo in that tower without anything terrible happening. I'm certain he'll be able to find him now."

For a moment the two fell into silence before Merry's head perked up and he looked intently at the door. He could have sworn that he had heard something outside their room. "Do you hear something?" he asked Pippin in a hushed voice. The young Took frowned in confusion and listened carefully. The sound of careful footfalls in the hallway met his ears.

"That sounds like one of the Big Folk," he whispered. "It sounds like they're going to…"

"Frodo and Sam's room," finished Merry in a horrified whisper. The two pairs of eyes widened to the size of saucers and both hobbits hastened to the door of their room. They burst out of it and into the hallway just as Aragorn's hand turned the doorknob to the adjacent room.

"Aragorn!" cried Merry loudly as he flung his arms out in a welcoming gesture. The King jumped and turned to the hobbits, a confused and concerned frown on his features.

"Yes, Merry?" he said, suspicious at once at the bright and innocent smiles he received. "Is there a problem?"

"We just…" Merry's eyes flew to Pippin, silently begging for help.

"We thought we heard someone coming," rallied Pippin. "So… So we thought that maybe you'd had some news or something." Aragorn's eyes narrowed.

"And I would be coming to tell you all this in the middle of the night, would I?" The faces of the hobbits fell rather convincingly.

"We didn't think of that," mumbled Pippin.

"Well it could have been urgent news," muttered Merry.

"Indeed," said Aragorn, still looking dubious. "I just thought I'd check on Sam. A hobbit who does not eat is a concerning matter."

"NO!"

Aragorn stared in astonishment as Merry and Pippin placed themselves between him and the door. "You don't want to be doing that," said Merry quickly. Aragorn's eyebrows shot up.

"And why ever not?"

"Because… Sam's sleeping," said Merry almost desperately. "And I _really_ don't think it a good idea to be waking him so late, especially knowing how tired he was… is…" The hobbit corrected himself quickly, scowling at how uncooperative his tongue was being.

"He really doesn't want to be woken up," provided Pippin after a pause.

"I won't be waking him, Pippin," assured Aragorn a little slowly. "Not unless it is absolutely necessary. I just want to make sure that he isn't falling ill."

"Sam fall ill?" said Pippin.

"Not a chance!" said Merry.

"He's as strong as an ox."

"Hardly been ill a day in his life!"

"Well that may seem," said Aragorn, starting to sound more than a little impatient. "But might I remind you both that it was not so long ago that Samwise was on the brink of death and is even now still recovering from the Quest. He is not as strong as he once was. He must not yet strain himself overmuch and I fear that he may be worrying himself to illness over Frodo's situation. Now if you'll excuse me, I must check on him."

"You don't need to worry about Sam," said Merry quickly. "We… We checked him ourselves." There was a silence that seemed to ring loudly around the apartment. Merry unobtrusively stomped on Pippin's foot.

"Yes!" exploded the Took suddenly. "That's right. We asked him some questions just before we went to dinner and he assured us that he was quite fine. Just tired. So there's really no need to go checking on him."

Aragorn's frowned deepened. "All the same," he began. "I would feel much better if I-"

"What is going on here?" The three turned to find Legolas and Gimli considering them with questioning gazes.

"Absolutely nothing at all!" said Merry loudly.

"Nothing happening here," provided Pippin with his most charming and innocent grin.

"Nope," agreed Merry. "We were all just about to go to bed." Aragorn's head snapped furiously back to face the hobbits. As he was distracted by them, Legolas worked hard to school his face into a blank expression. He could not help but be amused by the desperation and tension he sensed radiating from the small folk as they put all of their efforts into diverting the King's attention. He also found it quite entertaining to see his old friend caught in such a dilemma.

"Now really, you two," Aragorn was saying. "Enough is enough. I promise you that I will not awaken Sam unless it is absolutely necessary. I have his best interests at heart. Surely that should be good enough for you."

"Of course it is!" said Merry. "But… ah… the thing is-"

"What in Arda's name is happening here?"

The two young hobbits jumped at the sharp voice and spun around to face the owner of it with a shrill yelp of, "_GANDALF_!" The wizard's bushy brows drew down into a stern frown as he considered the two, both looking tense and uncomfortable. "What have you done now?" he demanded.

Both Merry and Pippin were distracted for a moment as they swelled indignantly. "What do you mean, _now_?" stipulated Pippin. "We've been perfectly good!"

"Peregrin Took," bristled Gandalf. "The words 'perfectly' and 'good' will never fall into the same sentence when you and your cousin are the subject matters. Now _what have you done_?"

"We have done absolutely nothing," said Merry unashamedly and half-truthfully.

"Nothing but prevent me from examining Samwise," said Aragorn irritably. "So if you will be so kind as to step aside, gentlemen, I will go and do that now." Merry and Pippin immediately huddled closer together, still between Aragorn and the door.

"We've already told you," said Merry. "We can't let you do that."

"Do what?"

The hobbits yelped again and everyone turned to see Faramir and Éowyn regarding the group with politely puzzled faces. Pippin bit his bottom lip and looked nervously from Merry to Aragorn to Gandalf to Faramir. Merry started muttering under his breath something along the lines of people not going to bed when they should be. Aragorn sighed.

"Pippin," he said. "I didn't think that such a simple matter would have to come to this – but either you allow me to enter through that door right now or I will have to dismiss you from my service as a Guard of the Citadel."

Pippin paled visibly and stared up at Aragorn with wide, fearful eyes, almost causing the King to change his mind. But at last the tweenager took a step to the side, grimacing an apology to Merry as he abandoned his cousin to his fate. The elder hobbit swallowed and looked up at Aragorn's stern face with wide eyes.

"Merry," began Aragorn in a voice that carried austere warning. Recognising defeat, the hobbit's head bowed and he too stepped out of Aragorn's way. Then at last Aragorn turned the handle to Frodo and Sam's room and opened the door.

"Merry," whispered Pippin in such a tone that only his cousin could hear him. "Should we start running?" Merry shook his head.

"It would do no good," he murmured back. "Their legs are too long. They would overtake us within five strides."

They and everyone else followed Aragorn into the bedroom, everyone looking curious while the hobbits looked plain petrified. The pair started backing towards Faramir and Éowyn who seemed the most likely candidates to offer them protection should the need for it arise.

Aragorn was silent as he came to Sam's bedside. There was a hobbit sized lump hidden amidst a mound of blankets. But the lump was not moving. There was no physical sign to indicate that Sam was breathing. Aragorn couldn't even see any part of his body from beneath the blankets, suggesting that perhaps the hobbit was not _able_ to breathe. With a concerned frown, the King quickly peeled back the covers from the area where the head should have been. Expecting to see a pile of light brown curls, Aragorn was aghast when he saw a head-shaped ball made from a nightshirt and a pillow that should have been Sam's upper body.

"Meriadoc, Peregrin," said Aragorn in a conversational voice. He slowly turned to face them, his expression strangely calm. But the hobbits immediately went rigid, all colour draining from their faces. They could not remember Aragorn ever calling them by their full names. _No one_ ever called them by anything but their pet names unless they were in trouble. And by the hard fire they could see burning in Aragorn's eyes, it looked like they were in BIG trouble. "Would you care to explain exactly what it is I am looking at?"

"Aren't you looking at Sam, my Lord?" said Merry weakly.

"No," said Aragorn shortly. Pippin instinctively cowered further behind Merry. "I am looking at pillows."

"Really?" said Merry in quite a convincing surprised tone. "But… I thought Gandalf promised he wouldn't turn us into anything unnatural."

"Gandalf did _not_ promise to not turn anyone into anything unnatural," said Gandalf sharply. "Now where is he?"

"Where's who?"

"_SAM!_" At the sound of the gardener's voice, the two younger hobbits had jumped and whirled around to face their companion, their slightly hysterical cries of surprise being strong evidence of their severely frazzled nerves. Sam himself jumped, surprised and rather put off when everyone turned to stare at him.

"Where in the Shire have you been?" exclaimed Merry loudly. "We all thought that you were asleep. In your bed. Because you said you were so tired. Too tired to even want supper. Isn't that right, Sam?"

At the severe looks Merry and Pippin were giving him, Sam nodded his head vigorously. "Oh yes, sirs," he said. "I was sleeping, but then I… ah… I woke up. And I thought I'd… I'd go for a bit of a walk."

"You thought you'd go for a walk in the middle of the night?" said Aragorn with a disbelieving look.

"Yes sir," said Sam with another nod, the colour creeping up his ears. He had never been good at lying. "Such a lovely night, sir."

"It is indeed," commented Aragorn. "So lovely that you thought you'd go out for a walk without telling anyone? So lovely that you carefully positioned pillows beneath your blankets before leaving for this walk?"

"Ah… y-yes, sir," said Sam uncertainly, the colour spreading to his cheeks. "That sounds about right, sir."

"So where _did_ you go for this walk?" inquired Aragorn.

"Ah… J-just around."

"_Samwise__ Gamgee_!" Sam jumped and turned to Gandalf, his features wearing the distinct look of a young child caught by his parents doing something he knows he's not allowed to do.

"Y-yes M-Mr Gandalf sir?" he managed to stammer.

"_Where did you go_?"

It was amazing how alike the old wizard and his gaffer sounded in voice, mused Sam. His eyes darted to Merry and Pippin, silently pleading for help. Merry almost imperceptibly shook his head, a look of guilt in his eyes. Sam lowered his own eyes to the well-polished floor as he answered, not wanting to lie to the intimidating wizard, but not wanting to betray his fellow hobbits and their plans. "Just down to the fourth circle."

"What in Elbereth's name did you go down there on your own for?"

"I just went to the inn there."

"_WHAT_!" Sam jumped as all of the Big Folk stared at him in astonishment, most of them with their mouths hanging open. Had he been younger, he would have held his hands guiltily behind his back as his toes nervously drew circles on the ground.

"I felt like an ale?" he offered timidly. Aragorn had his eyes closed and began to massage his temples, a habit both he and Gandalf seemed to have picked up from Elrond over the years. Aragorn mused that he would rejoice the day he ever met a hobbit that would give him a straightforward answer. In fact, he would make that day a public holiday in all the lands that lay under his rule.

"The truth if you please, Sam," he said.

"But I _did_ go to the inn, sir," said Sam. "And when I got there, I _did_ feel like an ale. But I only had one."

"What then, Samwise?" said Gandalf. Sam shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting around at the faces about him. The memory of meeting Faramir for the first time in Ithilien and the Captain's relentless questioning of his Master suddenly surfaced in his mind. Realising that there was no way he could avoid speaking the truth this time, he hung his head again.

"Then one of the Men came in," he said. Had he looked up, he would have seen Legolas murmuring something to Gimli while everyone tensed, their eyes now fixed on the hobbit. "I didn't see much of his face, but he had dark hair. He grabbed one of the barmaids and dragged her out of the inn, then made her follow him back to his house. I… I followed them out."

"Did you follow them all of the way?" asked Gandalf intently. Sam nodded.

"Yes sir," he said, daring a look back up at the wizard. The tight knot inside of him eased slightly to see that Gandalf no longer looked particularly angry. He suddenly felt as though he could elaborate. "All the way to the front door – not a particularly nice front door though. The house is a wreck, sir."

"But could you identify it again?" asked Aragorn eagerly.

"Aye, sir," said Sam with another nod. "I made sure as I'd be able to."

"Thank you, Sam," said Aragorn earnestly. He turned to Gandalf, his expression thoughtful and somewhat relieved. "I think I might have a plan after all."

* * *

Desmond closed the attic door behind him with a snap. Arlyn jumped at the sound, feeling about as far from calm as one could get. As her eyes adjusted to the new light, she noted the presence of Reynard, a man she did not know and a small figure about the size of a child. The small one did not look well at all. What little she could see of his face in the dim light was discoloured, and his dark, curly hair was limp and soaked with sweat. He was shivering badly.

"Good evening," said the unidentified man. Arlyn gasped and jumped to turn to him, his icy voice piercing her heart like a wraith's cry.

"Wh-who are you?" she stuttered. The man chuckled, a truly horrible sound, and rose to his feet from his previous position seated on a dusty old crate.

"Never you mind," he said. "Just you see that you do as you are told. Or else you might be looking something like this fellow here before the night fades." He indicated to the small figure. With a jolt as though she had just been struck by lightning, Arlyn realised that this was one of the acclaimed Periannath. She could see his strangely large feet dangling limply several inches off the ground.

"What do yeh want with me?" she asked fearfully.

"Yer ter look after this 'alflin' fer a bit," said Desmond. "'E's sick, see. Got a fever. Yer job is ter bring it down."

"W-what about 'is bruises?"

"Leave 'em," snapped Desmond. "Jus' bring 'is fever down." Arlyn glanced around at the three men before tentatively moving closer to the Perian. On closer inspection, he looked to be in a terrible way. The barmaid drew out a slightly trembling hand and took away the damp rag resting on his brow. She felt his temperature for herself, and let out a hiss of dismay at how hot he was.

"He'll need a lukewarm bath," she said. "This fever's dange-"

"_No_!" answered Seregon immediately. "No baths. You are to do what you can for him as he is."

Arlyn bit her bottom lip, regarding the small creature before her. She could tell that he was very weak, and without the proper care he would not likely last long. Nevertheless, she would have to do what she could for him.

"I'll need a jug of cool water," she said softly. "And a blanket. And a basin of lukewarm water. And… do yeh have ingredients fer a broth?"

* * *

Frodo could not understand what was happening. One moment he was stuck in another horrible nightmare, and the next he was back in the attic. But this time something was different about his surroundings. It took him some moments to realise that he was being held by a pair of gentle arms. It had been a long time since he had been held so. Of course, there had been occasions during the Quest where one of the Big Folk had carried him, but this was different. A very faint memory of being held like this by his mother surfaced in his mind. He gave a small sigh of content. Though he felt absolutely abysmal and knew that he was not out of danger, he somehow felt at least a little safe in these arms.

* * *

Arlyn held the small body carefully, being mindful of any hidden injuries he might have. It had been a long time since she had held such a small person. The last time had been when she had helped look after her sister's son when he had fallen dreadfully ill some years ago. The young lad had had a fearful fever that would not abate and had eventually claimed his life. At the memory of her nephew's dying moments – imprisoned in a nightmare that he would never escape – Arlyn held the Perian closer.

For a couple of hours, the barmaid continued to bathe the halfling's face, neck and hands, occasionally chafing his feet to try and draw the fever down from his head. But without being permitted to bathe his full body, Arlyn did not know what good any of it would do. Without the proper medicines, his fever would soon rise again. Forcing herself to not think of what would happen to her charge then, she looked up at Desmond.

"I'll need ta make him a broth," she said softly, not wishing to disturb the halfling in his light doze. "He'll need ta keep up his strength ta fight the fever."

"We dun' have that sorta stuff," said Reynard.

"Then one of us will have to go and get it," said Seregon pointedly.

"I'm not goin' out again!" exclaimed Reynard. "I already risked me neck gettin' that letter ter the King! Des can go."

"I ain't goin'!" countered Desmond. "I jus' went out ter get the flamin' woman!"

"Well one of _you_ will have to go," cut in Seregon sharply. "As the whole city is currently looking for _me_. So decide who is going quickly and get on with it."

Perhaps twenty minutes later, Reynard was stalking down the street, muttering under his breath while mentally repeating the required ingredients for the broth.

* * *

As the grey misery of a long storm finally dissipates into a light shower and then dissolves into non-existence, so the gloom of night gradually deserted the world as Arien guided the Sun higher into the heavens. The beloved Maia watched with a smile as its first mighty rays spilled colour and warmth onto the canvas of a new day. But while many turned their faces to this comforting and familiar touch of the morning and closed their eyes in bliss, Aragorn paced his room while mulling over the plan still formulating in his mind, completely oblivious to the change that was this new day. With a frustrated sigh he impatiently ran his fingers through his slightly dishevelled hair. Not for the first time since this ordeal had started, he asked himself how it had all come to pass. He was the King of Gondor, was he not? It was therefore his responsibility to see that such crimes as kidnapping were prevented from happening.

_Well!_ What a great success he had been so far! Not only was he failing abysmally in bringing the lower circles into control, he had allowed for the _Ringbearer_ of all people to be kidnapped and mistreated. Who knew _what_ unforgiving nightmare was now feeding on the little peace of mind that Frodo had so far managed to attain after the completion of the Quest?

Aragorn sighed again and threw himself into a convenient chair. His currently stormy grey eyes turned to the eastern window. He lowered his lids as the Sun climbed higher, its dazzling light and warmth pouring into the room. Aragorn remembered a time not so very long ago when the imminent approach of dawn had been his only source of hope.

He did not know how long he sat there, but very suddenly, he opened his eyes again and rose to his feet. He left the room swiftly, making his way to the lowest level of the citadel where the gold vaults were.

* * *

The sun was rising swiftly as Arlyn ladled the thin vegetable broth into a chipped mug and returned to the attic. When she sat back in her place by the Perian's chair, she saw that he was awake, though barely. And it was obvious that he was confused and in pain. She felt her own heart clench agonisingly as she listened to his laboured wheezes. In turn, she found him studying her own face with fever-bright eyes and a frown.

"Here, sir," said Arlyn softly. She had her back carefully turned to the shadowed corner where Seregon sat watching. She did not think he would be too pleased to hear her addressing his prisoner so formally. "Have some o' this. Yeh'll feel better fer it. It's broth." Frodo, feeling too weak and weary to refuse, sipped tentatively from the mug as it came to his lips. When he had had as much as he could handle, Arlyn put the mug on the ground by her feet and offered him some water before returning to sponging his face and neck with the damp cloth. Frodo didn't take his eyes off her.

"I seem to remember your face," he said at last in a cracked voice barely above a whisper. "But I cannot place your name."

"My name's Arlyn," answered the barmaid. "I work at 'The Silver Springs'."

Frodo nodded, accepting this answer, though at that moment he couldn't really process it. He felt his eyelids getting heavier again, and he thought longingly of sleep. But even as the mesmerising melody of slumber pulled him ever closer to that other place, he noticed the streams of daylight sifting through the grimy window of the attic.

"Is it morning, Lady Arlyn?" he said drowsily. "I believe I've forgotten what morning looks like."

And then he was asleep.

* * *

Aragorn sat alone in the majestic Great Hall, for he had excused the guards of their duty for a while. Long had he sat on his throne, his gaze travelling around him to take in the rich marble carvings of plant and animal and king. He had not yet had the opportunity to appreciate how beautiful this place was. But it was a foreign beauty. Being raised by Elves and the Wild, he had been accustomed to seeing the virtues of living things. He had not often given his reverence to stone. To him this hall felt cold – like a melting icicle clinging to a branch on a late winter's afternoon. It had survived the test of time so far, and was still fair to behold. But it now seemed familiar, had lost some of its virtue, and was still so very cold.

But Aragorn would still not take such things for granted. After all, this was his home now. He had responsibilities towards this hall of halls, and all of the rooms and passages leading off it. He would have to look after them if they were to see another generation of kings.

As his gaze roved across the carvings of these lords of old, he saw suddenly a scattering of red beads embedded in the monotony of grey stone. His mind immediately flew to the blood-decorated letter folded carefully in one of his pockets. Remorse flooded his heart to think of what his friend must be suffering at the hands of those Men. Remorse and a pounding fury.

Almost impulsively, Aragorn looked down below him to the foot of the dais where his throne was raised. Nine full sacks sat heavily and almost innocently on the ground. Though they were closed, Aragorn could just see a wink of gold. And for one moment, he hated that gold with every fibre of his being. Right then, it was not a materialistic necessity that sustained people's way of life. It was a curse and a bane that incurred some of the deadliest plagues of the mind – greed, lust, obsession and jealousy. For one moment, Aragorn would have liked nothing better than to throw the coins out of the window and be done with it. But this notion was interrupted by another voice.

"So you have come to a decision then?"

Aragorn did not know how long Gandalf had been watching him, but he found he did not really care. "Yes," he said heavily. "I have. Though it is precarious."

"What is your plan then?"

* * *

The rest of the day seemed to pass in a thick miasma. Time passed in fits of speed and tardiness. Sam usually was not very fond of such a day. He much more preferred it when time moved at a steady and reliable pace. But on this day, such a thought barely even crossed his mind. The only part of him that really kept track of the hours was his stomach. When it was time for another meal, it would not fail to let him know. But now, Sam was beginning to understand what Mr Frodo had been going on about in Rivendell – he knew he had to eat, but eating was the very last thing he wanted to do. Now as the gardener sat outside in the warm afternoon sunshine, he knew that it was time for afternoon tea. He knew that he should rise to his feet and go to the dining hall to get at least something to keep him going. But how could he when it was bare hours until the time for the Exchange (as it had come to be named)?

The young hobbit frowned at the ground as he swung his legs back and forth like a fidgeting child. More than anything, he wanted to go back to the Men's house right this moment and get his master out himself. But he knew he would never be able to do it on his own without something going wrong. So what, then? He couldn't sit around all day doing nothing – it would drive him mad.

"Sam?"

But then again, there wasn't much he _could_ do. Not until the Exchange, anyway –

"Master Gamgee?"

But to think of his poor master lying in that desolate house, friendless and beyond immediate help was more than the hobbit could bear.

"_Samwise_!"

Sam jumped and his head snapped up to regard Aragorn towering above him. The gardener hurried to his feet and bowed a little clumsily, his stiff muscles throbbing in protest at the sudden movement after long sitting.

"Sorry, sir," he said. "I was in another world completely, sir."

"So I see," said Aragorn. "I apologise for interrupting your thoughts, but I need you to come with me."

"Of course, sir," said Sam. He followed the King as he led him back into the citadel and to his private study where Legolas, Merry, Pippin and Faramir were awaiting them.

* * *

"Sir?"

Seregon's eyes glittered with a mysterious yet undeniably hostile light. "What?" he hissed. Arlyn bit her bottom lip, debating whether or not she should continue. But a white heart overrode the voice of reason that screamed at her to think first of her own safety. She gulped her fear down and summoned up every ounce of courage left within her.

"Sir, about the halflin'," she said. "I've managed ta get his fever down a mite but-"

"Good," interrupted Seregon. He moved over to the being lying in a fitful doze. His prisoner was trembling still, and even he could tell that the fever was still rather high. But it mattered not. Only a few hours more and the useless creature would be taken off his hands for good.

"But sir…" Seregon scowled and glared at the barmaid, irritated that she still felt the need to natter on.

"_What_?" he snapped, rising to stand at his full towering height. Arlyn visibly cowered, and though Seregon wanted to curl his lips up in satisfaction, his mask remained cold and intimidating – daring her to continue.

"H-he's still in a r-right bad way," stammered Arlyn, all courage draining out of her as she met those steely eyes. But she continued on, fighting to get her words out. "I-I really think he ought ta be t-taken to a proper healer straight away, s-sir."

"Is that so?" said Seregon softly. Arlyn's eyes lowered nervously to the ground.

"Th-that fever's gonna finish 'im off, s-sir…" she continued. "And he's weak as it is. H-he's developin' a nasty cough a-an' he won't be able ta breathe soon an' some o' them cuts and bruises look right nasty and will only be encouragin' the fever and… Sir, if he don't get the proper attention needed, he'll die."

"Everyone dies, girl," said Seregon. "That's a lesson you'll have to learn sooner or later. Will the halfling survive to see the morning?"

For a moment Arlyn stared hard at the man before her. She wondered briefly what had turned his heart so cold. Had it been the war? Had it claimed someone dear to his heart? Somehow she knew this was not the answer. No… for she perceived a spirit and a soul long darkened by some force or another. As the moment passed, and her silent question went unanswered, Arlyn blinked and answered the man's question.

"He should last a day or two more yet, sir," she said softly, her eyes lowering to the ground. Seregon nodded slowly, perceiving the change that had come about this woman. Was that _pity_ he saw lurking around her eyes? His own expression darkened. Pity was something that he could not tolerate. To display pity and compassion meant a weak mind and an easily moved spirit. And weakness was something that Seregon abhorred more than anything else.

* * *

"What's going on?" Sam could not hold back the question as it spilled from his mouth. He blushed furiously at his own forwardness, not seeing the brief smiles that lit Aragorn, Faramir and Legolas's features, if only for a moment.

"Thanks to your escapade to the lower circles last night, Sam," said Aragorn. "I have been able to conceive a plan that should return Frodo to us without having to lose so much money."

"That's wonderful," said Merry, a small frown on his features. "But what exactly does this have to do with us? Unless, of course, you need us to fetch some supplies or something for this plan to work?"

"This plan has everything to do with you, Merry," said Aragorn. "Out of all the peoples that walk Middle Earth, Elves and Hobbits are the best at walking it silently. Has it not often been said of your folk that hobbits possess a magic allowing them to disappear without a sound?"

"Yes…" said Merry slowly, exchanging a confused look with Pippin and Sam.

"When it is time for the Exchange," continued Aragorn. "I will need you three and Legolas to come as well-"

"But-" Sam's explosive interruption cut Aragorn off. "But didn't the letter say that you had to go alone, sir? They'll kill Mr Frodo if we come!"

"They are not going to kill Frodo," said Aragorn in a determined voice. "Because they are not going to see or hear you. You three and Legolas will go to the public gardens in the fifth circle an hour before the Exchange. You will go into hiding and you will stay in hiding. Unless something goes terribly wrong, you are not to reveal your presence to the Men in any way. If all goes well, the Men will hand Frodo over to me and they will get their money. Then Merry, Pippin and Legolas will follow them back to their house. My guess is that they will stay up for a while celebrating their 'victory' before they all go to bed. When you are certain that they are asleep, you are to break into the house and retrieve the gold. Sam, you will stay with me and help me with Frodo. I have a feeling that he is going to need the support your presence will bring more than anything else."

There was a pause of silence as this information sank into the hobbits' minds. "It's a good plan," said Merry at last, a frown still gracing his features. "But what do we do once we've gotten the gold out of the house? We can't carry it all the way back here without extra help. And what about the Men?"

"By the time you get the gold out," said Aragorn. "It should be morning. Faramir will be waiting outside with some guards. Once you are out, Faramir and some of the guards will go in and arrest the men while the rest of the guards will help you bring the gold back here."

There were nods as everyone agreed to this plan. But suddenly Sam spoke up. "But sir," he said to Aragorn. "How is Lord Faramir going to know where to go?"

"Either you will give him an excellent description and directions," said Aragorn. "Or you will have to take him there yourself."

* * *

It was so swelteringly hot. But at the same time, he felt unbearably dry, though he was sweating profusely as his body fought to cool down. His cracked lips and taut skin were aching for water. His parched throat was screaming for moisture while his tongue was like a mass of sand and cotton in his mouth. He had never been so hot in his life. But then again, he supposed that it should come as no surprise that he was so hot considering he was in a mountain of fire.

The flames about him produced an inconceivable amount of heat, burning his skin even though he did not touch them. When he breathed, it was not air his body took in, but black fumes – poisonous gases making him want to gag and choke. But how could he even think of such things when that familiar Pulse was ringing in his ears… drumming in his head… beating in his heart… That lulling Rhythm which had entwined Itself with his own life's music. He closed his tearing eyes as he felt that precious Beat becoming stronger and louder and faster than ever before. It left in him the sensation like he had just taken a wild ride on a runaway pony. He felt in himself a sense of power and daring. This Pulse, this Rhythm and Beat and Force… It gave him everything. It was feeding him his very life, even at this moment. And It was becoming louder and stronger and faster so that everything about him melted into a blur and all he could think about was this Beat. It was so fast that each stress was barely distinguishable from the last or the next. And so _loud_. His ears were almost hurting with Its incessant pounding. No – they were hurting. The Pulse was becoming unbearable and the blur of surroundings about him began to spin in a nauseating manner. He found himself sinking to the rocky ground as his legs turned to jelly. He tried putting his hands to his ears, wanting to block out the Sound. But It would not die down. It was in his ears, his chest, his stomach, his head… It was everywhere and he could not escape It. He could not rid himself of the unrelenting Pulse or Its meaning. It sang to him of guilt and failure and weakness though It spoke no words. He felt his chest becoming tighter as he fought to draw in breath. But the Pulse was twisting around him like a snake, squeezing him tightly – unforgiving. What breath he did draw in was poisonous and made his head feel lighter while his limbs were leaden heavy. He felt sure he was about to burst. Suddenly he dissolved into a fit of coughing that ripped at his lungs and throat. He could hear and feel the Beat laughing at him. Taunting him. Taking pleasure in his suffering. Enjoying every moment of his self-induced punishment.

And he hated It.

He hated It as It refused to bring him comfort or peace. He hated It as It ate away at his soul. He hated It as It distorted him into another person – some unrecognisable creature from nowhere. He hated It as It filled his entire being, driving out everything that he fought to retain. He hated It as It completely and utterly destroyed him…

But he could not help but love It…

* * *

Seregon watched in silence as once more the prisoner was overcome by nightmares. He watched as the barmaid tried to bring his mind to ease – 'tried' being the key word. His eyes narrowed as she stroked the halfling's fevered brow and began to softly sing a child's lullaby. She was telling him not to worry, that everything would be fine.

Seregon almost gave voice to the bitter and twisted laugh rising within him. No doubt the halfling knew better. And the woman would soon learn. Yes… the woman would soon learn her last lesson alright. Everything was not going to be fine. For she knew too much now. Too much for her own good.

Seregon's lips curled up into a cruel smile.

* * *

_5 hours…_

TBC

* * *

_A/N: I'm sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I never imagined that it would take me so long to update. But I just had no idea how to write it! Only within the last couple of days have I been able to really get anywhere with it. So sorry for the wait, but if it's any consolation, the next chapter is the Exchange, and I've already started writing it so hopefully it shouldn't be too long until I update. Summer holidays have just begun, so I don't have much of an excuse now for not writing. ;) But thank you everyone for being so patient. I only hope the wait wasn't for nothing._

_ Again, my biggest thanks to Lexi for her help. Expect a big box of chocolates in the mail for putting up with my constant talk about nothing else but fanfiction. ;) And also a huge thanks to Vorney for her very helpful input. :D thanks a million!_

_Astron-Meares – Oooh! Thank you for that. This story is starting to sound a bit like 'Treasures'. I checked it out but I couldn't find where the whore goes and gives information about Frodo's situation. I think she just leaves it. So I'm hoping to make this story a bit different in that respect anyway. But I'll have to see what else I can do. And thank you for the words of encouragement too. I must admit, I have little faith in this chapter, but hopefully the next one will be better. ;)_

_Breon Briarwood – You are absolutely right. Sam is, after all, the most reliable and practical hobbit that Tolkien brought into existence. ;) And yes – the time for the rescue has come. Next chapter we shall see what dramas ensue. But I'm afraid the TLC will have to wait just a little bit longer. Probably the chapter after next. ;)_

_Elijahs-gurl – Thank you very much for the wonderful words of praise and confidence! :D But I'm sorry to say that it's not quite 'all good', as you put it. You'll find out what I mean in the next chapter. ;) But your lovely words are greatly appreciated. :D_

_FrodoBaggins87 – Hehehe. Hurray for Sam indeed! I must admit, I'm quite proud of him for finding the house and all without being caught. Bit of a shame that he was caught in this chapter though. Lol. Oh well, better being caught by Gandalf and Aragorn than being caught by the men. :D_

_Graphite ZK – Lol, thank you for the lovely words of wisdom. :P But again, my deepest apologies at the delay in updating. (hangs head in shame)_

_Indolosse – Lol. You're very welcome. I'm glad you enjoyed the intro to the previous chapter. I've been wanting to write something about that point in Frodo's life for a while now. And you are most welcome for the diversion from homework too. :D Congratulations on finally writing something of your story. I'll be wanting to read it now!!! Hehehe. But I assure you I will return the characters back in one piece after I'm finished with them. Though they may be a bit worn for wear. ;)_

_Kaewi – Hehehe. Well I wouldn't be a very good writer if I didn't have our loyal Sam doing something of the like! :P And you're right – Aragorn's reluctance is a little out of character, especially considering what Tolkien writes about his relationship with Frodo in the books. But I guess he is the King now and he does have to think of his people first. I'm glad you enjoyed the input of the blood, though, and the dream sequences. I enjoyed writing them all very muchly. :D_

_lindahoyland – Lol, thank you very much. :D Gripping, eh? Well that all sounds good to me! :D I am honoured to be on your favourites list – I only hope that I don't disappoint you! I'm sure there will be plenty of scenes of healing between Aragorn and Frodo in the very near future, so keep a look out! And don't worry, there's still plenty of angst to come. ;)_

_Night-light Diva – Hehehe, thanks Zaneta. Wow, I've done Tolkien justice, eh? That is wonderful praise indeed! Thanks!!! :D I'm very glad to hear that you're enjoying the story._

_SaiyanQueenVega – Hahahaha. Thank you for that cheer – I'm sure Sam appreciates it too. :D Glad you enjoyed Sam's little escapade down to the lower circles. But you are right to feel worried about Arlyn's wellbeing. I'm sorry to say that I have a very bad feeling concerning what's going to happen to her (see the end of this chapter). We shall just have to wait and see though… ;)_


	13. The Exchange

**_Every Man for Himself_**

****

_Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings does not belong to me. (sobs) I am not making a profit out of this story._

**Chapter 13: The Exchange**

_6 May 3019__ – 3 Hours before the Exchange_

Frodo was not aware of the hours passing by. Indeed, he was barely aware of anything at all throughout the course of that day outside of his body's plunges into ice and fire and ice again. But when night covered the skies, he was suddenly awoken from a fitful slumber by a pair of painfully strong arms taking him on a jolting ride down the stairs. His eyes cracked open. A small part of him spared the time to be mildly surprised at how aware he felt while the rest of him just wanted to know what was going on.

Within moments he had been dumped unceremoniously onto one of the severely moth-eaten chairs that stood by the parlour fire. He winced as the sudden movement pulled on his healing bruises and cuts on his back, and clamped his eyes shut until he felt the sudden bout of vertigo dissipate.

"Well, my little rat," said Desmond with a purely malicious grin. "It's comin' ter the time when we'll have ter say our goo'-byes."

Even through weakness and illness, Frodo could barely contain the sudden swelling of joy and relief that flooded into his heart. The smallest smile of relief cracked through his formerly expressionless mask. From her vantage point beside Frodo, Arlyn's heart warmed a little at the sight. She herself felt relief wash over her – both for the uplift of her patient's spirits, and for the news that he would soon be free of these men and this unlucky place. She only hoped that she would be fortunate enough to escape them soon also. These thoughts were somewhat cut short, however, when Desmond grabbed a fistful of dark curls and yanked the hobbit's small head closer towards him. A whimper of pain spilled from Frodo's lips before he could quite force it back.

"I wouldn' be lookin' so pleased if I was you," hissed Desmond. "Remember – yer still in our keepin'. And while yeh are we can still do what we like with yeh. Understand? So we'll be givin' yeh a little goodbye present if yer lucky." From his position standing by the fireplace, Reynard laughed. Any positive feelings that the hobbit had attained drained from him like ink spilling out of a faulty pen. When Desmond released his painful grip on his curls, Frodo instinctively huddled deeper into the chair. When would this nightmare end?

"But before any… gifts… are exchanged," said Seregon. "There are a few things we need to get straight before we leave to meet the King. The first thing is that we are going to drug you before we leave. I'm not going to risk you making a single sound."

"No… please!" Frodo could not stand the thought of being forced to inhale more of that horrible drug that robbed him of consciousness. It felt like he was being smothered by a sickly sweet smelling weed. "You don't have to drug me. I'll be good – I promise!"

"Yer promises count fer nothin', rat," said Reynard. "Yer bein' drugged an' that's that. Yer lucky we're not resortin' to other means ter do it."

Frodo swallowed down any further words he had had and said no more.

"When we get to where we are to meet the King," continued Seregon. "Everything should run smoothly. However – it is possible that he will bring others with him who will remain hidden. If that is the case and his companions are revealed, then your time will be over."

Frodo felt a shiver trickle down his spine. This did not sound like good news for him. "What do you mean?" he croaked, hoping that his imagination, already in work concocting possible answers, would be proven wrong. Seregon's lips curled into a rather superior smile, causing the hobbit's heart to sink. The man exchanged a look with Desmond. Desmond nodded, his expression also lifting, and he withdrew a carefully sealed jar from his pocket.

"Yeh see this, halflin'?" said Desmond. "This is wha' Men down south use ter punish their wors' pris'ners. An' it's a punishment no one recovers from either. Even a tiny mouthful o' this stuff an' yeh suffer the wors' agony imaginable. I've heard that those who've bin given larger and stronger doses spew out their own stomachs. Yeh see – this here stuff is a mixture o' the mos' deadliest animal and plant poisons in the world. On'y way ter cure it is if yeh get the rem'dies of evr'y individual poison in the thing, and if the victim spews out enough o' the stuff. They say it's nigh imposs'ble ter do."

Frodo felt another shiver wrack his frame, and he did not think it had anything to do with his illness. As his wide eyes beheld the poison, he could only pray that Aragorn did as the letter had said, and no one else came with him.

* * *

_2 Hours_

In the citadel, Aragorn was likewise giving his last instructions to the remaining hobbits and Legolas before it was time for them to depart.

"I know I said for you to leave an hour before the Exchange," he said. "But I think it would be best if you left now. I do not doubt that the men will be at the gardens early so they can scout around and blend into the area. You all must do the same. Spread yourselves out and _make sure that you are not seen_. You all know what is at stake should you be discovered by the wrong person." The three Hobbits and one Elf nodded their consent before disappearing to their rooms to prepare themselves. Ten minutes later, they met at the gates of the seventh circle, then silently made their way to their assigned destination.

It did not take them long to find the gardens. They still had over an hour to conduct a thorough examination of the area. They found that the gardens were moderately sized, being the home to one willow tree, a handful of oak trees, two flowerbeds and an abundance of bushes. There were two gates into the gardens – one on the south side and one on the north side. Both of these gates were guarded by two lampposts which were lit with a well kindled flame every night as the sun lowered Her face below the walls of the circle. The golden flames mingled with the silver starlight and moonlight, casting odd shadows on the ground.

Below the willow and the oldest of the oak trees there was a bench for people to sit on – the willow's bench being almost hidden from sight by long draping branches. Legolas explored this bench and the willow carefully before announcing his prediction that this was where the Men would hide upon arriving at the gardens while they waited for Aragorn.

"Should one of us hide here too then?" asked Pippin as he inspected underneath the willow's canopy.

"No," said the Elf at once. "This willow is not a particularly big one. If all three Men and Frodo are under it, I fear it would betray the presence of any other that sought to use it as cover. No… we must seek our own cover elsewhere. I suggest that one of us is stationed by the north gate, though."

"Why the north one?" asked Sam.

"It is closest to the gates of this circle that lead down to the fourth level," explained Legolas. "Did not Frodo say in his letter that he was somewhere in the lower circles? The Men will most likely be coming up, therefore they will most likely use the north gate to enter and exit these gardens." Three soft breaths exhaled in a light "oh!" of sudden understanding with a hint of awe at their friend's skills.

"How do you do that?" asked Pippin.

"Do what, Master Took?"

"Know everything, of course!"

"Nothing is all-knowing," answered a slightly amused Legolas. Oh if only Gimli was here to have heard this!

"But you always seem to know what to do," argued Pippin.

"That comes from years and years and years of practise," said Legolas. "But quickly! We must each still find a hiding place. Merry, might I suggest that you be the one to take cover by the north gate?" With a nod, Merry moved and had soon disappeared out of sight of the hobbits' eyes. But Legolas' clear gaze tracked him as he crawled under a conveniently thick (but not impeding) bush that had been planted right beside the gate.

"Should I go in those ferns, sir?" said Sam. Legolas turned his gaze until he spotted the forest of fronds and nodded. The ferns were close to the willow, being in the south-west quadrant of the gardens and due west of the willow. With nothing so much as a rustle, Sam also disappeared out of mortal sight.

"Master Peregrin," said Legolas. "I think you and I should hide together."

Pippin opened his mouth and was about to question this decision when suddenly the sound of a clumsy footfall reached his ears, followed shortly by the soft 'whump' of stone hitting wood. Beside him, he sensed Legolas stiffen for a moment before he crouched down closer to the ground. Without making a sound, the Elf regained Pippin's attention and gestured to a large clump of bushes surrounding the oak nearest to the willow. It lay in the north-east quadrant of the gardens, being positioned between Merry and the willow. Quick as lightning did Pippin vanish amongst the leaves with Legolas close behind. They looked to the north gate just in time to see three tall figures walk through it. One of these figures had something slung over his shoulder. Something hobbit sized… Legolas lay a soothing but restraining hand on Pippin's shoulder as the young hobbit gave a soft strangled choke.

The men paused as they entered through the gates, looking around them for a good place to take cover. Just as Legolas had predicted, one of them pointed to the willow. The tallest of the three and the one bearing the hobbit moved towards it while the smallest of them moved to the same cluster of trees where Legolas and Pippin were hidden. Both of them tensed but the man did not seem to notice anything amiss. He stood leaning against a nearby oak, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Meanwhile, the man bearing the hobbit had slung him from his shoulder and dropped him none too kindly on the ground. From their low vantage point, Legolas could see that Frodo did not respond physically as he surely should have. Nor did he make any sound.

* * *

_2 Hours_

"We should leave soon," said Reynard. "It's gettin' late."

"Yer right," agreed Desmond as he glanced out the window. He looked back at Frodo. "Looks like we won' have time ter give yeh a partin' gift after all."

"Not you at least," murmured Seregon as his eyes flicked over to Arlyn. She shifted uncomfortably under the cold gaze. "Reynard," he said more loudly. "Go and get what supplies we will need. Desmond, check that the streets outside are clear."

He waited for the two men to leave the room before turning to fully face Arlyn. "Now, my dear," he said softly. "I have a little parting gift for you, to er… _thank_ you for your help. Just close your eyes and I will get it for you."

Every single tiny cell that made up Arlyn's body screamed at her to not close her eyes. But Seregon stood staring at her, not moving until she obeyed. Finding that she was trembling slightly, she lowered her eyelids, both of her hands wringing at her skirts until they were a twisted mess.

The sound of ringing metal resonated about the room. She heard a cracked scream. Very suddenly she realised that it belonged to the hobbit. But just as she had resolved to open her eyes to see what was wrong, her body fell to the floor in a crumpled, lifeless heap.

Seregon spun to face Frodo, taking in his deathly pale skin, drenched with sweat, his impossibly wide eyes and his trembling limbs that would not be still. In a flash, the Man held the already bloodied knife against his unprotected flesh, threatening to slit another throat. Frodo fell silent at once.

"_This_ is why you are going to be drugged," hissed Seregon through clenched teeth. "I don't want another sound from you unless I specifically say so. Do you understand?" Frodo nodded mutely, his eyes glued to Seregon's face by an inexorable terror. Not even when he heard the heavy, rushed footsteps of Desmond and Reynard did he look away from the face of the murderer who stood so calmly before him. Briefly Frodo wondered if perhaps this was all one long, horrible dream. But how could he feel such pain and helplessness if he was dreaming? Perhaps he should try and go to sleep now? Maybe then he would be able to wake up and find that everything was well again. He would open his eyes and find that it was morning, and perhaps a worried Sam would be kneeling on the bed beside him, saying how he had just been about to go and get Strider or Gandalf for help. Then Sam would climb down from the bed to fetch a glass of water, all the while telling Frodo how he had been trying for ever so long to waken his master from whatever nightmare he had been trapped in, and whether he wanted him to go and fetch help anyway.

"Who screamed?" blurted out Desmond, forcing Frodo back to reality with just the sound of his gruff voice.

"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?" roared Reynard. His eyes had been the first to fall onto Arlyn's body. Now so directed, Desmond turned to look. He took in the sight of the blood still pooling around the woman's head and neck, and the lethal gash on her throat.

"Yeh killed 'er," he said.

"An excellent observation, Desmond," replied Seregon dryly. "Of _course_ I killed her! She knew too much. The moment we released her she would have gone straight to the guards and told them everything she knew. Now let's go. We must be at the gardens before the King. Do you have the drug-"

"Hang on a minute," interrupted Reynard. Seregon turned his attention back to the younger man, and was dimly surprised to see the fierce fire burning in his pale eyes. "That's not good enough. Yeh didn' need ter kill 'er an' you know it! We coulda kept 'er 'ere an' gotten 'er ter look after us. But there was never any need ter go around killin'. I reckon yeh've got a private agenda that yer not sharin' with us an' if you don' wanna end up like 'er then yeh'd better start speakin' now."

There was a pause as Reynard's words hung on the air, the accusation and suspicion seeming to make the very room close in. Both Frodo and Desmond's eyes flitted back and forth between the two men now facing each other, wondering what would happen next. They were both more than a little surprised when Seregon started laughing.

"Son of Reynor," he chuckled. "How the guards of the citadel would have welcomed you into their company! I have spent the last six years in their jailhouse and never for one moment did they not suspect me of having another purpose. They even thought my term in prison was part of another plan I had so carefully and cunningly formulated." The taller man stepped closer to Reynard and lowered his voice. The younger man could now discern a strange light in the steel eyes. He would have liked very much to have stepped back. But he did not dare. He did not dare to show his fear to this force whom he did not yet know the full strength of. He did not dare to test himself against Seregon so soon. "But you and the guards seem to be forgetting one very important detail," Seregon's voice continued speaking, and every syllable that rolled from his tongue seemed to further leaden the air. "I am a man with nothing to lose. I do what I wish and more often than not I am untroubled by the consequences. I killed that girl mostly because I didn't like her and partly because she is a threat to this job. And I'll kill you too if you continue to carry on like this. So I suggest you calm yourself down and we will leave. There'll be plenty of other pretty things for you when this is over – some of which will be women. She's no great loss. Now _come_! It is getting late. Someone drug the halfling and rebind his hands and feet."

* * *

_1 Hour_

Desmond mentally cursed his clumsy feet as the small pebble he had kicked rolled down the street before hitting the fence ahead of them with a 'whump' that seemed to slice through the still night air. There was a pause as the three men stood stock-still, but they heard no other sound and saw no other movement. Reynard carefully let out the breath that had hitched in his throat and shot a glare at Desmond.

"Don't do that again," he warned. Desmond glowered in return as he shifted Frodo's limp weight on his shoulder.

"My apologies, Rey," he hissed. "But it's a bit hard ter move with the required stealth when I've got a bloody halflin' slung over me shoulder."

"Well then perhaps you should-"

"Both of you shut up!" ordered Seregon. He got immediate compliance. "Let's just get this over with. We need to find some cover."

The three entered the gardens by the north gate, but paused to take in their new surroundings. At last Reynard pointed towards the south gate in the region where the willow stood. "How 'bout there?" he suggested.

"Yes," agreed Seregon. "Desmond, you and I will go there with the halfling. But Reynard – I think you should take cover elsewhere. Just as a precaution." For a brief moment Reynard studied Seregon's features in the light of the lampposts they stood between, wondering what this man's intentions really were. But the moment passed, and he was moving towards a group of rather shadowed oak trees surrounded by thick bushes. Seregon and Desmond disappeared under the willow's curtain. Now they had only to wait.

* * *

Time was passing and still there was no sign of Aragorn. The (conscious) hobbits were getting restless, each of them wanting to get this business over with so they could return to the safety and comfort of the citadel with Frodo. With each minute that ticked by, Pippin threw Legolas furtive glances at least four times. He found himself envying the Elf's ability to remain so calm and relaxed and contented to wait. His fair features looked as serene as always, but had the young tween known his companion for longer, he would have known that underneath the mask Legolas was growing just as frustrated and impatient as the hobbits. He had, after all, known Aragorn the longest of them. And Aragorn had always had impeccable timing for as long as the two had known each other. So why was he keeping them waiting?

A mere five paces away from the two crouched figures, Reynard also was restless for some action. This place made him feel uneasy and he wanted to be clear of it as soon as possible. He had the distinct feeling that he was being watched, but by whom, or what, he could not tell.

Under the willow tree, Seregon also sensed that some unknown factor was working against his plans. But looking around, the only thing that seemed out of place was Desmond. Everything in the gardens seemed tense and on edge – even the plants. But Desmond leaned against the trunk of the willow at his ease, looking more than a little bored. Seregon smirked to himself. The man beside him had never relished in waiting for anything. If he wanted something done, he wanted it done quickly and efficiently and without any complications.

But even as Seregon dwelt on this, there came to his ears the sound of a soft creaking. His eyes shot to the south gate where a cloaked figure had walked through and was making his way towards the centre of the gardens. But his progress was not smooth or terribly fast. Seregon could see that he was slightly hunched over a large barrow that was filled with several plump lumps. Desmond stood up straighter, making a soft growl of anticipation in his throat. The figure came to a stop in the approximate centre of the gardens, his head turning this way and that as he visually looked for the kidnappers.

"You're late," said Seregon softly, not stepping out of his cover. The figure gave a small bow as his head turned to the willow.

"I apologise," he said in an equally soft voice. "I had some trouble distracting my guards and guests for long enough. And it is no easy task carting nine full sacks of gold through this city." Desmond chuckled softly.

"Very well," said Seregon, his only display of humour being a slight curling of the lips. "Move the gold to the north gate of this garden then move back to where you stand now. One of my… associates… will go and check that everything is in order."

For a moment Aragorn paused, looking as though he wanted to say something. But he decided otherwise and did as he was told. He moved the barrow to the designated gate and as he lowered it to the ground, his eyes flicked to where they could just make out a few curls peeking out between the leaves of a bush. One eye looked up to him and winked, before a small hand carefully drew up a hood to cover the curls and the rest of the face. Merry disappeared out of sight and Aragorn returned to his previous position in the centre of the gardens. Beneath the willow's branches, Seregon gave Desmond a nudge and nodded at him to move. The man checked that his own hood hid his features before moving to the barrow. Several tense moments passed before his voice called gleefully to his companions.

"It's genuine! It's all genuine!" Seregon's mouth curled further into a definite smile.

"You have your gold," said Aragorn. "Now where's the halfling?"

"All in good time, my Lord," said Seregon. Aragorn did not miss the mocking tone in his voice. "You will get your precious halfling. And good riddance! He has been more trouble than you have paid for him."

Merry, Pippin and Sam clenched their hands into white fists of fury, wishing more than anything else that they could show this man just how troublesome a hobbit could be! Aragorn found his own anger boiling dangerously as his mind flew back to Ithilien. _Praise them with great praise_. "That halfling," he said. "Is worth a thousand times more than what I paid for him. He deserves to be a prince for his deeds of late and you would do well to remember that." Seregon found himself unable to suppress a snort of disdain.

"Or what?" he challenged. When Aragorn did not answer, he gave an icy chuckle. "Be careful, Your Highness. The rat's life is still in our hands. One wrong move and he _will_ die."

"How do I know he is not dead already?" fired back Aragorn, not liking where this talk was leading. As if reading his mind, Seregon's smile lifted again.

"You want assurances?" he said. "Very well." He bent down to the ground and the unconscious body at his feet. Seeing the flash of movement between the draping branches, Aragorn anticipated the man's next move.

"Wait!" he cried with such authority and desperation that Seregon paused. "Don't harm him! I have a throwing dagger with me and I will not hesitate to kill your friend with it if you hurt the halfling."

Seregon gave another laugh. This was surely the best fun he had had in a _very_ long time. "Then kill the man!" he said. "I could not care less. In fact you would be doing the city a favour. I do not care if others die – only if I die. And I do not think you would risk a throw at me with overhanging branches and darkness impeding your accuracy. Especially when I could easily shield myself with the halfling. If you want assurances, then you'll be getting them how they're given."

He returned his attention to the being beside him and saw to his satisfaction that Frodo was waking up as if on cue. Grabbing a fistful of dark curls, he yanked the hobbit up to a sitting position and pulled the gag from the small mouth. Then before anyone could do anything else, Seregon let his free hand descend on Frodo's already abused skin. The sound of the slap seemed to resonate about the gardens as though it had been a clap of thunder as it was joined by a cry of pain.

Several things happened at once. Still feeling slightly groggy from the effects of the sleeping drug, and confused from his fever, Frodo started to do the only thing that seemed logical given his situation – he started struggling. Seregon had not been prepared for this sudden (and surprisingly strong) attack, so it was that he did not notice anything else that was happening around him.

At the sound of Frodo's cry, the other three hobbits had also cried out while Aragorn had had to call on a lot of self-control to not do something that could further endanger his friend's life. But he should not have worried, for while Seregon was distracted, so were Desmond and Reynard. The former had been more than a little surprised to hear the bush beside him give voice. He had been even more stunned when the bush started violently shifting about. However, he inexplicably managed to recover when the bush produced a halfling. But when Merry tried to run to the aid of his cousin, Desmond grabbed the scruff of his neck and pulled him towards his much larger and stronger body. As small arms started windmilling at him, he hastily snatched their wrists and pushed the body to the ground, hoping it might be easier to subdue the hobbit from there. But Merry lashed out with his overlarge feet, kicking the Man where is would hurt most. Desmond let out a howl of pain.

"Rey!" he shouted. "Help me! He's brought more of these bloody rats!"

As much as he would have liked to answer his partner's plea for help, Reynard himself was already rather distracted. He had seen Legolas and Pippin's bush rustle as Pippin had tried to shoot out of it to reach Frodo. All that had stopped him were the lightning-quick reflexes of the Firstborn. But within moments, Reynard had the leaves of the bush parted and his eyes widened to see the two. In the split second that it took for him to draw breath enough to shout out to his own companions, Legolas had unsheathed his long knives and in a movement too quick for the naked eye to behold, he had pulled Reynard into the cover of the bush. He held the Man against the trunk of the oak with his knives at his throat.

"If you value your life," said Legolas softly, yet in a tone that bore no time for negotiation. "You will stay quiet and do exactly as I say."

At the same time, Aragorn had resolved to turn to force to get what he wanted while all three Men were distracted. He had just unsheathed Andúril, it's cold blade gleaming in the dim light of the night, when it seemed that Seregon had at last overcome Frodo. The hobbit let out a fresh cry of fear and pain as his left arm was twisted behind his back and a knife was held to his throat.

"_Everyone shut up and stay right where you are_!" roared Seregon, having seen Aragorn take a few steps closer to him. He glared at the King then turned his eyes to Sam who had rushed out at his master's second cry, not being able to bring himself to do nothing and stay hidden any longer.

Seregon received instant compliance. When everyone froze in place, he slowly stepped out from the cover of the willow with his hood still miraculously raised to shadow his features. He edged further into the open where all could see the position in which he held Frodo.

"A very foolish move, King, bringing you little friends along." Every word that Seregon spoke radiated with fury. "I specifically told you to come alone." Aragorn did not respond, his expression strained as his eyes beheld Frodo's bruised and swollen face, and widened eyes that projected only pure terror. "Tell your friends to come out of hiding now. They are to stand where I can see them and all of you are to drop any weapons you have with you."

Aragorn hesitated for one heartbeat before he capitulated. Contravening this man now would not help Frodo. "Merry, Pippin, Legolas," he said, knowing they had all heard Seregon's words. "Do what he says." Very hesitantly, Merry, Pippin and Legolas removed themselves from hiding, joining Aragorn and Sam. They all dropped their various swords, knives, and daggers, and Seregon's expression twisted as he witnessed the extent of the King's treachery to his orders.

"_Very_ foolish," he said. "I hope you're happy with yourself, Your Majesty."

"Hand our friend over," said Aragorn. His voice was stern but his eyes were pleading. This did not pass Seregon's notice, and he laughed softly and cruelly.

"Not feeling so brave and cocky now, are we?" he said. "But now I regret to inform you that you have just played your last card and have lost the game."

"No," said Aragorn, refusing to let this nightmare continue. "Give us our friend! You can still keep the gold." Seregon laughed again.

"Why you would want this brat back I truly cannot fathom," he said. "But you may have him, and we will still get the gold." At this news, Pippin let out an explosive sigh of relief, his expression changing to match it. Seeing (and hearing) this, Seregon shook his head with an amused smile playing about his lips. He really should do this more often… "I wouldn't look so pleased if I were you," he said to Pippin. The young hobbit's face fell instantly. "The terms in the letter stated that the King comes alone with the gold or else the halfling gets it." All colour drained out of the hobbits' faces. Legolas shot a worried glance at Aragorn.

"Aye," continued the Man. "Obedience is a hard lesson to learn – especially for a king. But even kings must learn when it is time to do as they are told. _Desmond_!"

Desmond moved over to Seregon, casting a scathing look in Merry's direction on the way. The hobbit balled his hands into fists, wishing he could have done more damage in the small amount of time he had had.

"Desmond," said Seregon, his expression shifting to one of satisfaction. "You still have your… supplies, do you not?" A wicked grin manifested on Desmond's face and he drew out the jar, breaking the wax that sealed it and taking off the lid before handing it to Seregon. Seregon sheathed his knife and took the jar, sparing a moment to examine its contents appreciatively. Realising what it was, Frodo's eyes widened further and he began to struggle again.

"Yes," said Seregon, his smile being plain vindictive. "You know what this is, don't you my little rat." He turned his gaze back to Aragorn, Legolas and the hobbits. "This," he continued, holding up the jar for all to see. "Is a concoction of the most deadly poisons in the world. And you are going to be granted the pleasure of watching you friend here suffer the total agony of a long and horrible death because of it."

With that said, Seregon beckoned at Desmond who moved to hold still Frodo's thrashing head. When Seregon moved the jar to the cracked lips, he found them clamped tightly shut. Desmond pinched Frodo's nose, compelling him to open his mouth to breathe. Without waiting, Seregon poured the thick poison down the hobbit's throat and tossed the now empty jar to the ground. He clamped Frodo's mouth shut, and Frodo was forced to swallow.

TBC

* * *

_A/N: Well there it is! I guess that kind of closes 'Part One' of this fic and I would like to take the chance to give an extra special thanks to a few people. _

_The first BIG thank you is to Lexi who has supported me for much longer than I've been writing this fic and who has put up with my continuous rants about fanfiction for just as long. Thanks for being a great friend and my guardian angel! _

_Second BIG thanks goes to Bronwyn (indolosse), who has likewise offered me wonderful and very valuable support and advice. I also thank you for putting up with my mono-topic conversations and I can't wait until your fic is ready! Good luck! _

_My third BIG thanks goes to Breon Briarwood who, according to my calculations has been my most faithful reviewer. Your words (and cheers) of encouragement mean a lot to me and to you I send a lifetime supply of strepsils in any flavour that you wish! ;) Also, my BIG thanks to Kaewi, who has thus far given me some of the most helpful reviews which have really helped shape this story._

_Speaking of reviews, I am coming up to a goal that I have dreamed of achieving ever since I started writing fanfiction – to get over 100 reviews for a story. So to all of you out there who might read this, the person who sends the 100th review for this fic will have an original character dedicated to them in future chapters. They can help decide the name, gender, age, history etc of this character if they would like. I guess it's just to show how much the encouragement, praise and advice (etc) all means to me. Fanfiction is made by fans for fans after all. But now for some more thank-yous…_

_Astron-Meares – Wow! Thank you very much for your kind words. I'm glad you are enjoying this fic so much and your faith means a lot to me. I hope I continue to live up to the standards. ;)_

_Breon Briarwood – Your chapter is served… :D_

_Elijahs-gurl – My goodness that's a lot of exclamation marks! Lol. I think we all hope that he doesn't die, but things are certainly looking a bit more doubtful after this chapter. I guess you'll have to wait and see how events turn out for our poor hobbit… ;)_

_FrodoBaggins87 – I think it seems to be a trait with most hobbits that they can't not make us laugh for too long. :P And I'm glad of your response to the end of the chapter. I was originally going to end it with something else, but that part just hit me on the head and demanded to be written. I admit it received a raised eyebrow as I read over it before posting… ;P_

_Iorhael – Why do you weep? What are these tears upon your face? Soon you will see All of your fears will pass away…_

_Kaewi – Many thanks! :D As I said above, fanfiction is written for the fans, so what you all write in reviews I guess influences a bit what I put in the next chapter. And don't worry – the story won't be ending too soon. There's still a lot more drama up ahead for our heroes. ;)_

_lindahoyland – I'm glad you're enjoying this. I assure you, I love writing it! So you don't have to worry about any lack of continuity… This is a quote a friend gave me, and I believe it fits in with your review. ;) "A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men." I have a sneaking suspicion that Merry and Pippin in particular try to abide by that 'rule'._

_Wydinel Sheergale – You are VERY right. Hobbits (particularly Frodo) seem to be magnets for trouble and torture. But while it breaks our hearts reading about it, I guess we can't help but love it when the time for hugs and comfort comes. Heavens knows that Frodo's certainly earned some comfort time in this fic. You'll soon see what happens next! _


	14. Reaping the Consequences

**_Every Man for Himself_**

_Disclaimer: The wish fairies are being mean and horrible and are not letting me have LOTR. So I have decided to retaliate by having a big pout and by writing about it anyway. ;)_

**Chapter 14: Reaping the Consequences**

_7 May 3019 – The Very Early Hours of the Morning_

_Breathe…_

_Stay calm…_

_Focus…_

_You know how to deal with people who have been poisoned._

_Just think…_

The Men had gone. _Frodo had been poisoned_. The gold had gone. _Frodo had been poisoned_. His plan had completely and utterly failed…

And Frodo had been poisoned. Frodo had been hurt. Frodo was ill. Frodo had a fever. Frodo… _needed his help_. Donning the carefully calm mask that had taken many years to truly master and perfect, Aragorn pushed aside his ferocious storm of thoughts and emotions as he knelt down beside his unconscious friend where he had been discarded like some piece of rubbish. Aragorn had to call in a lot of self-control to contain his sudden flare of anger, directed at both the Men and himself. A healer had to remain focused and clear-headed when dealing with a patient. A healer could not afford to miss a single clue that the body could tell, least he end up giving the wrong diagnosis, in turn prescribing the wrong treatment and medication.

As Aragorn conducted his quick but fairly thorough examination of Frodo, he distantly sensed Legolas kneeling down beside him, but not too close as to hinder him. Sam, Merry and Pippin had already positioned themselves around their beloved friend and cousin, even before Aragorn had moved towards him. The three hobbits now watched the proceedings as sharply as hawks, their complete and strained silence spreading to cover the entirety of the gardens. It seemed like an age and a lifetime before Aragorn at last sighed and lifted Frodo's rather battered and worn body into his arms. He rose to his feet with the others following his example.

"Is he alright?" asked Sam desperately, unable to go without solid factual information concerning his master's state any longer. The healer in Aragorn mentally cried out in further dismay as he spared a moment to observe how pale and shaken the young gardener obviously was. But the ranger in him told him that Sam's well-being could not yet take priority.

"No, Sam," said Aragorn as gently as he could. Realising that he had everyone's undivided attention, he rose his voice a little to address them all. "Not only has Frodo been poisoned, but he is ill, has a high fever and has been mistreated harshly. It is vital that we now get him back to the citadel as quickly as possible." After so saying, Aragorn turned to Legolas. The Elf was somewhat surprised to see the deadly fire burning in his friend's normally calm eyes.

"Legolas, I need you to run ahead and alert Gandalf and the others to what has happened. Get someone to send for the herb master from the Houses of Healing and to tell him that he is to bring all remedies for fevers and poisons that there are, along with all the athelas leaves that can be spared. Make sure that Frodo and Sam's room is ready and that there is a basin of cool water with some cloths, a pitcher of water and anything else you can think of that will be of help. Go now with all the speed that you and your kind have been graced with."

Legolas shot out of the gardens and towards the citadel as fast as his immortal legs would carry him. Aragorn, with Frodo safely in his arms and the other hobbits close beside him, followed in the Elf's wake, though they moved at a much slower pace.

"Strider," said Merry. "Why didn't you get Legolas to take Frodo with him?" Aragorn glanced down to the small beings buzzing around him like flies on a hot summer's day. All three of them were looking up at him curiously, though worriedly, each of them wondering the same thing.

"Although Legolas has a smooth gait," said Aragorn. "Running from here back to the citadel would still provide a rough and painful journey for Frodo if he were to awaken. The movement it would inevitably produce would induce more of the poison to enter his system and start effecting him quicker. That is something we must avoid happening at all costs."

* * *

The Prince of Mirkwood had never felt so relieved as he did when he burst into the citadel and found everyone he needed to right where he had first thought to look. Gandalf, Gimli and Faramir had been waiting rather impatiently in the Fellowship's apartments. When they had heard light but very hurried footfalls coming towards them, they had each frozen and stared intently at the direction in which the new sound came. When Legolas' strained features came into view, they all felt their hearts plummeting. A million questions surfaced in each of their minds, the first and foremost being – _why was he alone_?

"Legolas what-"

"Mithrandir!" cried Legolas, paying no heed to the disgruntled look that Gimli shot him at being interrupted.

"What happened?" demanded Gandalf quickly. "Where-"

"The Men discovered us," explained Legolas as rapidly as he could. How he _wished_ that Gimli and Faramir understood Sindarin, so that he could expel the onslaught of Elvish that was accumulating on his tongue. "They poisoned Frodo in retribution. Aragorn is returning with him and the other hobbits now."

"The Ringbearer has been-"

"Poisoned. Yes. He is in a bad way. He has been physically harmed and is ill with a high fever. Aragorn has asked that the herb master in the Houses of Healing be sent for and that he bring all the remedies for fevers and poisons that he has, as well as all the athelas leaves that can be spared."

"I'll go and fetch him now," said Faramir. "But what poison should I tell him has been used?"

"Several," said Legolas. "Tell him we know not what must be specifically treated." Faramir's brows drew down into a worried and confused frown, but he quickly nodded and disappeared out of the citadel. Gandalf watched him leave for a moment before spinning back around to face Legolas. When Legolas and Gimli saw the deep pain and anxiety that had been etched into his ancient features, they found their very hearts stricken to the core. For here was not the Head of the Istari Order. Here was an old man suffering at the news of a loved one's hardships.

"My friend," he said. "You will have to tell us exactly what happened."

* * *

Even as Aragorn made his way through the city to home, he could feel the precious bundle in his arms growing increasingly warmer. He heaved a mental sigh of both worry and frustration. Already the poison was doing its work – for he did not doubt its potential influence on the illness and fever already wracking Frodo's frail form.

Carefully, he quickened his steps, the other hobbits jogging to keep up with the distance his long legs covered with each step. This silent journey back up through the city was costing them more than they would ever say. Already weary from the night's events, they each seemed to stumble along through some sort of nightmare plagued with anxiety and fear for their Frodo. Their minds returned them to a time and place not so long ago, when they had watched Glorfindel galloping out of sight with a fading Frodo in his arms. They and Aragorn had staggered along after him as quickly as they could, though the pace that the Ranger had set far outdistanced what they could manage in their exhausted and terrified states.

But the knowledge of the grave danger that Frodo was in had spurred them on, as had their desperation and need to be by his side. Glancing up at the pale hand nodding up and down in rhythm to Aragorn's steps, Sam mused grimly that things hadn't much changed since late October.

Sensing the weight of the gardener's gaze, Aragorn looked down at him and gave a small reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Sam," he said. "We're almost there." Sam nodded jerkily, not trusting his voice enough to do anything more. Instead, he focused his attention on the looming gates ahead.

* * *

At long last the doors to the citadel were thrown open to admit Aragorn and the hobbits. Their hearts flared with relief to be back in the King's home, and they quickened their steps as they moved ever towards the Fellowship's apartment. When they finally entered Frodo and Sam's room, they found themselves caught in a world of flurried activity. The atmosphere was one of chaos and confusion. Servants dashed about with towels, herbs, blankets, cloths, water pitchers, basins and more. Everyone was so distracted with their tasks that the five new arrivals almost went unnoticed.

But Gandalf had been tracking their progress as best he could since Legolas had returned, and he looked up at them with heavy eyes as they entered through the doorway.

"How is he?" he asked as he moved to Aragorn. The hobbits thought that the wizard looked older now than they ever remembered him looking before. Aragorn shook his head at the question, his expression grim.

"Not good," was his answer. He moved over to Frodo's bed and gently laid the unconscious hobbit on it. He began to undress him in preparation for a more thorough examination and to change him out of his filthy clothes into something more comfortable. Sam scurried up on the bed to help while Merry looked about the room until he spotted a hobbit-sized nightshirt that had been laid out on a chair. He moved to retrieve it, handing it to Aragorn just as he was about to ask for it. But even as the Man grasped the fine linen in his hand, he found his eyes glued to the sight that was before him. As a frown blossomed on his brow, he ran a careful hand over Frodo's discoloured torso. The bruising he saw looked far worse than the bruising he had helped heal after Moria.

"Merry," said Aragorn at last, not taking his eyes from the expanse of abraded skin. "Why don't you and Pippin go and make some athelas tea. You know how to do it. And mix in a couple of peppermint leaves while you're at it. It should help lower his fever."

Merry frowned in consternation. Was Aragorn trying to _distract_ him and Pippin? His eyes trailed to Sam who seemed momentarily frozen, a look of horror mingled with barely bridled fury on his face. He too, had his eyes locked on the forest of bruises on Frodo's body. But from his vantage point standing on the ground, Merry could not see what the gardener could, despite his new superior height. He glanced up at Gandalf who nodded at him, seeming to understand the unvoiced question. Merry turned to Pippin and firmly steered him to the fireplace where laid a kettle sitting in readiness on the hearth, already filled with water.

"Come on, Pip," he said. "Get me some athelas leaves, will you? Three should be alright. I'll get the peppermint."

With the two youngest hobbits distracted for the time, Aragorn looked up at Gandalf himself. The look on the wizard's face was one of deep pain. Aragorn had only seen such a look cross the ancient features twice before. The first time had been on Frodo's first day in Rivendell, when Elrond had given his first full diagnosis of his small patient – that a shard of the Morgul knife was still implanted in Frodo's body and was slowly and painfully inching towards his heart. Only upon its removal would Frodo be able to recover, and he still might not at that.

The second time had been after the destruction of the Ring. When Aragorn had almost threatened the other soldiers and healers to not disturb him while he desperately tried to save Frodo and Sam's lives, Gandalf had been the only one to stay. The wizard had looked into the Ringbearer's mind, peering at flashes of memories of horrendous ordeals enough to make his heart quake in combined fear and awe. And the look on his face then had been heart wrenching in itself. It had taken some heavy persuasion to get Gandalf to divulge the information he had obtained from these memories. When he had at last spoken, Aragorn did not blame him for not doing so sooner. In the short amount of time that Aragorn had known him, Frodo had become dear to his heart and it pained him to think of the bright-eyed hobbit enduring such trials. Now, as he examined the bruised and slightly swollen torso, Aragorn was able to fully understand and appreciate that pain. Frodo Baggins had, after all, done absolutely nothing to deserve such ill treatment from anybody, much less these three Men whose lives he had inevitably saved in the accomplishment of his Quest. Frodo had suffered more than enough already, and didn't need to be put through another ordeal, especially so soon. And especially when he was in the keeping of the King.

A slight pause in his ministrations was the only sign Aragorn gave of how his thoughts troubled him. The pause went unnoticed by Sam, who was busy cleaning his master's face with athelas water. But Gandalf noticed it, and upon quietly probing Aragorn's mind, he resolved to speak with him later.

For now, Aragorn had finished cleaning the bruises on Frodo's abdomen, and was preparing to sit him up to bandage it. He had discovered two cracked ribs where the worst of the bruising was, and he could only guess that the cause had been a kick from a heavy boot. With the bandages at hand, he nodded to Sam who, with practised ease, moved his master into a sitting position. But just as Aragorn was about to begin, Sam gave a strangled cry.

Over by the fireplace, there was a crash and two answering cries as Pippin dropped the mug he had been holding and it shattered upon impact with the ground. But he gave it not another thought as he and Merry bolted over to the bed and had climbed up on it before anyone could say or do another thing. Older, heavier and more experienced, Merry had manoeuvred his way in front of Pippin, forcing the tween to wait his turn while Merry and Sam sat immobile on the bed, white horror radiating from their faces.

"By the Shire…" breathed Merry.

"_What is it_?" demanded Pippin impatiently.

"Pippin go and clean up the mess you made," said Merry in a voice that couldn't have belonged to him. His tone was deadened yet lined with anguish. He didn't take his eyes off Frodo's back.

"But Merry-"

"_GO_!"

Pippin was moving before he had quite realised it. After all, he knew that tone of voice and it evoked no argument. Though, he was not used to hearing it from Merry, but from Frodo himself. Pippin knelt on the ground and started carefully picking up the larger pieces of the broken mug first, his head lowered to shield the tears of fear swelling in his eyes.

While a distant part of Merry felt bad for yelling at his younger cousin, another part of him knew that it was for the best, while the rest of him was too distracted with the sight before him to give it another thought. He and Sam had carefully shifted Frodo's position so that he was lying on his stomach. Merry had been forced to move to give Aragorn the room he needed to carefully examine and clean the whiplashes littering Frodo's back. Merry moved to the other side of the bed to sit by Sam. The gardener had absently taken Frodo's limp hand in his own and was stroking it while Merry distractedly ran his fingers through his cousin's tangled curls.

"Don't worry, Frodo," murmured Merry. "We'll have you well again in no time."

* * *

Something wasn't quite right.

That was probably the only fact he knew for certain at that particular point in time. Everything else had been distorted into a hazy blur, and his world was even now crashing down on his aching body. He opened his eyes slowly to find, to his dim surprise, that everything was slowly being covered by a swirling white fog. Strange how this fog felt so warm… Usually they were cold enough to fully awaken a sleepy person. But this fog made him feel strangely drowsy…

"… are… awake? … hear…?"

So his eyes were looking at a foggy world and now his ears seemed to have been stuffed with wool as well. In some far-off recess of his mind, the notion came to him that this was not normal and his hearing should really only be impaired like this if he was under water. Concentrating as hard as his lethargic mind would allow him, he managed to discern that he was not under water, but was in some sort of reclining position. He absently frowned to himself. What in the name of Everything was going on?

"_Frodo_!"

He blinked and decided to try focusing his eyes. Eventually, as the fog began to clear a little, he realised that what he had been blankly staring at for the past few minutes was a circle of faces and a richly carved ceiling. Funny though, that the ceiling should look clearer than the faces. They all seemed rather familiar, but to his growing frustration, he could not quite pinpoint to whom these faces belonged, or where he had seen this ceiling before.

"Mr Frodo, please say something!"

He hadn't noticed the panic that had been mounting within him until he felt a sense of distinct relief wash over him and counteract it. He knew that voice and the hand that carefully clutched one of his own. How could he ever forget?

"Sam?"

The relief that had filled him seemed to migrate to the faces above him also. More than one pair of eyes filled with tears, though he did not see such details. "Yes, Mr Frodo," said Sam, not being able to hide the trembling in his voice. "It's your Sam here. We're going to look after you now."

Well that certainly sounded like a wonderful idea. But… if he was only being looked after _now_, then wouldn't that mean that something had happened before? "What happened?" he wondered aloud, only half expecting an answer. He felt his fingers start to tingle, as if in anticipation. Although, he wasn't exactly sure that he _wanted_ to know. For a feeling of foreboding tainted the edge of his mind as he strove to remember.

"Frodo-" The hobbit was distracted from this thought as he realised that he knew this voice as well. _Strider_. "Frodo you have been poisoned."

That had not been the answer he had been looking for. He felt the panic return, and the warm haze that had surrounded him became hotter. His tongue began to tingle like his fingers, and his mouth very suddenly felt as dry as desert sand.

"Frodo this is very important," said Aragorn in as steady a voice as he could manage. "You have to try and remain as calm as possible. Right now you have some very bad poison in your body. If you move about too much or get too excited or worried, your blood will move faster about your body meaning that the poison will work faster. Do you understand?"

It took several moments for this new information to penetrate and process in Frodo's mind. But at last he thought he comprehended what this meant. "Yes," he said softly, struggling to wrap even that simple word around his uncooperative tongue.

"Good," said Aragorn, looking a little reassured. "But now, my friend, this is also very important. We need to know what poison the Men gave you so we can give you an antidote to make you better. The Men said that what they gave you was a mix of different poisons. Do you know what they were?"

The desperation and gravity in Aragorn's voice broke through the leaden fog clinging to Frodo's mind before anything else did. As the words spoken were then sorted into meaning, the hobbit thought as hard as he could to remember anything that might help his friends.

"I don't know."

At his answer, the very air in the room seemed to thicken so that Frodo felt he would choke on it at any given moment. It was a strange thought – to choke on air. Frodo imagined it would feel something like drowning, but you were being suffocated by too much air instead of too little. The thought gave him no comfort, instead making his stomach churn uneasily. He clutched it weakly, wishing his misery would just go away and leave him alone. After all, it would be just his luck if he started throwing up now…

Something in that thought gave him pause. Deep in the landscape of his mind where his garden of memories was, one tiny seed began to blossom and flower.

_I've heard that those who've bin given larger and stronger doses spew out their own stomachs_.

"Wait…" The memory was fading quite before he had gotten a good grasp on it. Beside his bed where he had been laid, Aragorn and Gandalf turned to him sharply.

"What is it Frodo?" said the wizard urgently.

_Yeh__ see – this here stuff is a mixture o' the mos' deadliest animal and plant poisons in the world_.

"Desmond said that it's a mix of the worst poisons from plants and animals."

"Did he say anything else about it, Frodo?"

"Yes…"

He knew there had been more. In his mind's eye, he saw himself huddling deep into the moth-eaten armchair as the Men stood over him, one of them holding that accursed poison and explaining to him what it was.

_On'y__ way ter cure it is if yeh get the rem'dies of evr'y individual poison in the thing, and if the victim spews out enough o' the stuff_.

"What did he say, lad?"

For as long as he had known Gandalf, Frodo had always reprimanded him (however lightly) for calling him 'lad'. He only ever let Bilbo call him that after all. But when he had come of age and the wizard still insisted on using the pet-name (if that's what you would call it), Frodo had decided to just let it go. After all, he supposed that most people would seem like lads and lasses in the eyes of one who had walked Middle Earth for hundreds of generations of Men (and Hobbits).

"He said you had to get the remedies for each individual poison," said Frodo slowly. "And then th- the victim still had to throw up enough of it. He said that was the only way."

Aragorn nodded as he carefully stored this information into his own memory. Even as he did, the door to the room opened to admit the herb master from the Houses of Healing. He bore a tray of several herbs and tonics, the variations being assorted into different groups to treat different symptoms. The herb master put the tray on a side table and Aragorn was already inspecting it when Frodo's weak voice trailed to his ears.

"I feel thirsty…"

Aragorn spun back around to face Frodo. Even as he had opened his mouth to speak, Sam beat him. "Sir," said the gardener worriedly. "He's getting hotter."

"He's not sweating anymore either," added Merry, his eyes widening as his fingers continued to brush through his cousin's hair, realising that the limp curls were no longer damp but dry.

"Frodo," said Aragorn. "Do you feel anything else other than thirsty? Does your stomach hurt, for instance? Think carefully, now."

Frodo frowned, seeming to have the need to concentrate hard on both the question and himself. He shifted slightly, a look of discomfort and annoyance crossing his pale features.

"It feels so hot," he murmured after a few moments.

"What does?" asked Aragorn.

"Everything," said Frodo, his frown deepening. "It all feels hot. But so dry. It's like I'm back in-" He abruptly stopped talking and clenched his eyes shut. He didn't want to think about any of that right now. As if in testimony to his discomfort, his stomach churned again uneasily, what little it contained threatening to be expelled from his body.

"Like back in Mordor."

Unsurprisingly, it had been Sam that had spoken. When Pippin glanced across at him, he was startled to see that the gardener's usually warm brown eyes had suddenly aged, a slightly hollow look haunting their depths. In those earthy orbs, Pippin saw poignant memories of trials and ordeals beyond his own comprehension. Sam's face was lined where it hadn't been before, and Pippin suddenly realised fully how much he had been through, and how much the efforts of the Quest had cost him.

Pippin looked back down at his elder cousin in time to see him nod carefully. "But it's different," he continued, his voice rasping at the exertion. "I don't know how. But my hands feel strange. They keep tingling. It's the same with my tongue."

Aragorn nodded distractedly and moved to the desk that was against the wall between the two beds in the room. He searched for some parchment and a quill and opened a new bottle of ink. He quickly began scribbling down what Frodo told him.

"Is there anything else?" he asked.

"My stomach hurts," said Frodo. "It feels like its burning. And I feel so tired. I don't think I could move. But I want to. I can't get comfortable." Aragorn nodded as he moved back to the bedside, feeling for himself Frodo's dry, hot, but flushed skin. His hand moved down to Frodo's neck where he felt the hobbit's suddenly rapid pulse. He frowned. Not ten minutes ago his pulse had been almost too slow for safety. He sighed to himself as he realised that most poisons did cause an irregular heartbeat. He looked into Frodo's eyes, noting how the pupils were dilating. He frowned again.

"Frodo how is your sight?" he asked. "Can you see properly?"

"No," answered Frodo after a pause. "I can see the ceiling just fine. But everything else is bleary. It keeps going all foggy."

Aragorn sighed and wrote down this other symptom on the parchment. While Sam dutifully helped his master drink some of the peppermint and athelas tea that Merry and Pippin had made earlier, the King's eyes wearily scanned over the page while one of his hands absently massaged his temple. He sat down heavily on the chair at the desk, wondering what he was to do now.

"Well?"

Aragorn shook his head and averted his gaze from the parchment. "Most of these are effects shared by several poisons," he said softly as he met the wizard's piercing gaze.

"Most, but not all?" probed Gandalf, his voice also low so as not to disturb anyone else.

Aragorn nodded, his eyes once more reading down the list he had made. "This symptom concerning Frodo's eyes," he said. "While there is more than one poison that will cause the pupils to dilate, I only know of one that changes the lens to see things in the distance rather than things that are closer. That same plant causes just about all of these other symptoms, including making the skin both dry and hot – an unusual sign when dealing with poisons."

"And what is this plant?"

"Belladonna. Also known as Deadly Nightshade."

"Well that's one poison down," said Gandalf, his voice carrying a small hint of relief. "Can you identify any others?"

"This tingling sensation Frodo's feeling in the hands and tongue," said Aragorn, his brow contorting back into a frown as he concentrated on sorting out the right knowledge. "It's one of the symptoms of Wolfsbane poisoning."

"Wolfsbane?" exclaimed Gandalf, though he was careful to still keep his voice low. Aragorn nodded, understanding the new-found fear in the wizard's voice.

"Yes," he said. "It's one of the fastest-acting poisonous plants. Come to think of it, I'm surprised it hasn't done more damage already."

"Could-"

"Mr Frodo, what's wrong?"

The heads of both the wizard and king snapped around at the sound of Sam's worried voice. Frodo was struggling weakly in his position, muscles aching too much for him to move himself how he wanted to. In three strides Aragorn was by his side, feeling the hobbit's forehead and once more checking his pulse. "What's wrong?" he asked as he peered into Frodo's eyes.

"I'm going to be sick," choked Frodo, his eyes wide and his face taking on a decidedly green pallor. Aragorn wasted no time in shifting Frodo onto his side and looking about for an empty basin. Not finding the desired object nearby, he snatched up a towel that had been discarded by the bed and was just in time to hold it under Frodo's chin as the hobbit expelled what little his stomach contained.

"That's it," coaxed Aragorn softly as he gently rubbed the small back. "Let it all out."

"You mean you aren't going to help him?" exploded Pippin. He had been busy pouring a glass of water for Frodo to have when this sudden bout of sickness was over, but found himself distracted by what he had heard. His face had blanched, both at Aragorn's words and from witnessing his cousin being so violently ill, and his voice was becoming increasingly higher in pitch as he reached the end of his rope. Aragorn mentally sighed as he remembered that Pippin was not yet an adult by the standards of his own people. There was only so much a child could stand, after all – especially when a loved one was concerned.

"I _am_ helping Frodo, Pippin," said Aragorn calmly. "Remember, he told us that he has to bring up as much of the poison as he can to help him get better."

"But-" Pippin looked around wildly, his hands making vague gestures at the room. Merry's eyes darted between him and Frodo, clearly torn between his cousins, at a loss as to which one needed him more. Sweet relief washed over him when Frodo made the choice for him.

"I'm alright, Pip," he managed to rasp as his stomach seemed to settle down a little. He grimaced as he watched Aragorn ball up the soiled towel and throw it into an empty corner of the room. He did not miss the doubtful look the Man shot him. "I'm feeling better already." Still kneeling on the bed beside him, Sam shook his head, muttering something inaudible under his breath. Pippin sniffled, tears building in his suddenly over-bright eyes.

"Are you sure, cousin?" he whispered, climbing back up on the large bed and holding out the glass of water. Aragorn quickly took it before Frodo could and held it for the hobbit to sip at. While Pippin might be oblivious to how weak the smile that Frodo gave him was, Aragorn saw it, and the uncertainty lingering in Frodo's fever-bright eyes. He mentally sighed again. If anything, Frodo would be feeling worse now that another symptom had thrown itself upon his body.

"Pippin," he said, deciding that the best thing he could do for the tweenager right now would be to give him a distraction. "I need you to run a special errand for me."

"What is it?" asked Merry, more than a little sharply. Considering how his younger cousin was at the moment, he did not think sending Pippin off to run errands was the best thing for him.

"Something very important," said Aragorn. "I need you, Pippin, to go back to the gardens and find the jar that the poison was in. I need you to bring it back here so I can see if it can tell me exactly what we're dealing with. Merry, you can go with Pippin if you like." He turned to look at Merry, catching the dilemma he had inexorably put the hobbit in. Merry bit his bottom lip, debating whether he should go with his younger cousin to keep an eye on him, or stay with his elder cousin to help out how he could.

"I think you should go with Master Pippin, Mr Merry," said Sam quietly. "I can look after Mr Frodo just fine while the two of you are out." Merry studied Sam's face for a moment before nodding. He kissed Frodo's brow and gave his hand a small squeeze.

"We'll be back soon, Frodo," he said as he climbed down from the bed. "Come on Pippin," he said to the tween. "The sooner we leave, the sooner we'll find this jar, and the sooner we can be back."

* * *

Less than ten minutes later, the room was devoid of servants, Elves, Dwarves, Stewards, healers and tweenagers. The only ones left were Frodo, Aragorn, Sam and Gandalf. For some moments they remained in silence, with Aragorn once more studying the various herbs decorating the tabletop and Sam sponging Frodo's face and neck with a cool cloth in an attempt to try and bring his temperature down – or at least try and make him a little more comfortable.

"It's going to get worse, isn't it?" said Frodo suddenly, his voice barely audible. The tingling in his fingers had spread up his arms and to his toes, making his hands and feet feel numb. His entire mouth felt like it was burning with a fire of ice, and this new coldness seemed to be slowly spreading through the rest of his body so that some of him wanted to shiver and curl up into a tight ball, while the rest of him wanted to jump into a tub full of ice. And all the while his stomach continued to insist upon rolling about so that there was not a single moment that he didn't feel nauseous.

"Yes," answered Aragorn with a sigh. He lifted his gaze from the new piles of herbs he had made to look across at the bed. "But I also think that it will get better."

Sam's head instantly snapped around to face the former Ranger, his eyes wide and shining with hope. "You've found something," he said eagerly.

"Yes," said Aragorn. "I believe I've identified two of the poisons as being belladonna and wolfsbane."

"Does that mean you're going to start giving Mr Frodo the remedies?" asked Sam.

"Not yet," said Aragorn. "There would be no point to do it now when Frodo will only bring up anything that I give him before it has a chance to have an effect on his system. We will have to wait."

"For how long?" asked Frodo. He did not know how much longer he would be able to stand feeling so wretched.

"I'm not sure," answered Aragorn heavily. "We can only wait and see."

"How are you going to find out what the other poisons are?" asked Sam.

"When Merry and Pippin come back with the jar the poison was in," said Aragorn. "I'm hoping to find a little still left in it. Hopefully it will give some clues as to what other plants have been used. If you could help me in doing that, Sam, it would be greatly appreciated. I do not doubt that you would be able to identify these plants more quickly than I. But to find out the animal poisons – that will prove more difficult. I have heard of these sorts of toxic mixtures before. They are mostly used down south. I have heard of some of the animal poisons that are used – perhaps one or two different types of snake and spider, as well as scorpion poison. I am hoping that a general remedy for the poisons of each type of animal will be enough."

"What if it's not?" said Frodo, his words slurring slightly. How he _wished_ he tongue would co-operate. He looked up at Aragorn who regarded him with an unfaltering gaze.

"That is something I refuse to consider," he said.

TBC

* * *

_A/N: I know! I know! I am amazingly cruel and horrible and mean for what I've done to Frodo lately! But hopefully it will all get better… eventually… But I promise to update as soon as I can – I always do. But I'm starting school again on Wednesday, so I won't have as much free time on my hands to write. But please be patient. Your responses have been great and have kept me going for so long. For that I thank you all muchly, and I hope you continue to enjoy this fic as much as I've enjoyed writing it._

_Astron-meares – Thank you very much! :D I hope this chapter was okay too. I had lots of trouble writing some parts. But there will definitely be plenty more 'emotions passing between the characters' in the next chapter, especially as Frodo's condition will inevitably worsen. So keep a look out! :)_

_Breon__ Briarwood – Lol. You have certainly made your appreciation known, and I appreciate it very much. :D I hope your fingernails grow back alright. ;)_

_FrodoBaggins87 – (sighs). Well… I sent you an email concerning my plans and motives. I hope you got it, read it, and have reconsidered 'not wanting to know what happens next'. I've only tried to be a bit different, and if you don't like how it's turned out, well I suppose that's that then. I only ask for a little patience and that you just wait and see what happens…_

_heartofahobbit__ – Congratulations! You have sent me the 100th review for this fic and can now help create a character if you so choose. :D Thank you for your compliment. I do try my best and it was a challenge to get the whole sequence right. But there is certainly more suffering on the way…_

_Indolosse__ – Glad to keep people on the edge of their seats! I only hope you don't fall off your chair and hurt yourself. :D But I know – I am far too evil for my own good. But fear not, for I am indeed writing more. :D_

_Iorhael__ – I know, I know. I am terribly cruel. I feel amazingly bad for putting poor Frodo through all of this. But with Aragorn formulating another plan to help Frodo, hopefully things will get better and nothing will go wrong this time around._

_Kaewi__ – Hehehe. I was quite proud of my elf too! ;) Erm… what you said about Seregon twisting Frodo's arm to get a reaction sounds about right (looks around shiftily). Lol – maybe I should get you to go through my chapters for me before I post. A fresh pair of eyes is always welcome after all… lol. But I hope you haven't suffered too much in your wait for this chapter. I tried to write it as quickly as I could but I did have a lot of trouble. So I hope you enjoy it. If not… well… I guess we'll find out, won't we? ;)_

_Kellie – Lol. I hope you were able to wait for this. I always update as soon as I can. I've had trouble with this chapter though, so I only hope the update is okay. But I do feel bad for leaving you all with such an ending. I think you must be right – looks like my evil side is definitely getting the better of me. ;)_

_Lexi__ – Yes, the goal has been achieved! Lol. And tell Megan thank you, I miss her too, and the audition went well enough. Hehehe._

_lindahoyland__ – I'm glad you thought this was an exciting chapter. It was a good challenge writing it. But you were right – they did end up killing Arlyn. Seregon really is a big old meanie to put it lightly. ;) Concerning Aragorn's growing list of things-to-do, I suggest you watch this space! :P_


	15. The Stars Shall Weep

_**Every Man for Himself**_

_Disclaimer: If Lord of the Rings belonged to me, I would not be sitting at my laptop writing this fic. So until the people who _DO_ own it come to their senses and realise that it should belong to me, I don't own anything (except for Seregon, Desmond, Reynard and the deceased Arlyn)... Go me._

**Chapter 15: The Stars Shall Weep**

_7 May 3019 – Late Morning_

The only thing he knew for certain was that he was trapped within some prison of horror, and that he could not break out.

He had been told that everything happening was real. But then if this was real, then that meant that the events leading up to 'now' had also been real. And if one dared to think about it, the events leading up to this simply seemed far too terrible to believe.

For instance, was it really possible for there to be creatures that were neither living nor dead? And, for that matter, could someone's spirit really live on only in the physical form of a lidless Eye wreathed in flame? Could the said person's spirit really be able to survive, all because a small Ring also happened to survive as well? Could this Ring, which is supposed to be an inanimate object, really have the ability to bend others to Its will? How could such a small band of gold expand one's life to over five times its normal span? How could It summon all things evil to It? How was it that It stained black the hearts of the Great and Noble, so that even the most powerful and wise feared even to lay a single finger on It?

Were all of these questions really answerable? Had reality played the world such a cruel hand as to make all of this viable? If this _was_ true, then it seemed almost expected that this Evil should spread to the hands of Fate and whisper its manipulative songs into Lady Vair's ear as she ever spins the threads to weave the tapestry of Time. For it had been, is now, and will always be she that ultimately weaves together the story of each life, including his. And it had been she that interlaced the dark threads of hardship, trials and obstacles into his life's path. Therefore, he felt quite content to blame her for his terrible misfortunes so far, including this latest tribulation...

He was not aware of how long he had slept. He could not even be completely certain that he had actually done so. He remembered his eyelids dragging closed, and for one blissful moment he had been floating in a nameless realm of dark oblivion. But that moment had evaporated into the past, and his vision had been plagued by jarringly sharp images of a cold and deep-set horror, too terrible to be set into even the blackest of words. He had not been able to determine whether this had all been part of some scarring nightmare, or if these were all part of reality.

He was not aware of how long he had slept.

But whether his eyes were being heaved open by the tugs of Awakening, or whether he had simply blinked, he was once more unveiling the gift of sight, and was looking about him at the world. And it seemed to him that this world stood towering around him, surrounding him on all sides so that he was left alone and friendless in the middle of a mocking ring. The walls about him laughed harshly in his ears, the sound echoing so each resonance struck against his cracked soul. He tried to move, tried to break free, but even his own bed was working against him. Or was it a grave that his body lay on?

His blankets – or perhaps they were the linens lining his coffin – were slithering around him like a great snake, squeezing his body ruthlessly. He could not breathe. He was burning. All around him, and within him too, everything burned. A choked whimper fought past the ash that was suddenly in his mouth, escaping him like some pitiful worm that escapes a close encounter with a bird, and burrows back deep into the cold ground only to be forgotten and lost. The laughter of the walls boomed louder, building up to a crescendo that spelt out his doom, until he felt they should be toppling over from their efforts, crushing him beneath their unforgiving weights. But they remained standing and strong; keeping him forever locked within a prison of scorn and torment.

He wanted to escape. More than anything, he wanted to escape. But he knew that he could not and this knowledge beat at him, tormenting his soul and making him want to scream out in unbridled despair. He even felt the cry welling up in his raw throat – felt it as both a physical presence and an emotional dagger to his flesh. He choked on it, and as he did he saw the shadows that had been lurking about him move in. He clenched his eyes shut, not wanting to see or know what new anguish they would bring to his suffering. He wanted to return to that single moment of precious oblivion that he had cradled before – so long ago. He wanted to cling to that moment with all the strength left to him and never let go. But even with his eyes so tightly lidded, the nothingness refused to come, and the despondency that resulted caught in his throat and pounded against him, screaming in his head its demands to be freed.

Yet somehow he knew that the results would not be to his liking if he parted his lips now and let loose this swelling mass of emotion. But he could not keep it inside of him forever. He cracked his eyes open to look about him for something he could hurl it at, but his eyes were not co-operating and he could not see properly past the looming shadows and deceiving mists above him. He tried to sit up, thinking that perhaps the gained height would help him some. But the blankets had incarcerated him too tightly, and the attempt of movement only pounded back on his aching body, bearing down on him with such force that tears clouded his sight even more. His head pounded, his muscles throbbed and his lungs ripped with fire. He had forgotten to breathe.

He could hold nothing in any longer. As a tear escaped his eye, slicing down his face, one of the shadows reached out to him with a long cold hand. He wanted to and tried to pull away from it. But he was rendered immobile. The hand landed on his shoulder with brutal force and flipped him onto his side. He released a choked sob from the pain, and that was enough. The scream that had caught in his throat finally spilled out of his mouth. But the sound he had expected and imagined was mutated and warped. He was not screaming. He was retching. He was throwing up a stench and a putrid liquid. Not the pain and fear and despair. No... that still remained deep within him, hammering against his spirit and turning the cracks into long, deep gashes of fire.

* * *

As Frodo sagged back weakly on the soiled bed linens, Aragorn worriedly felt the hobbit's brow. His temperature had spiked again, yet still the pale skin remained dry. Belladonna was working quickly – more so than it should be. Aragorn frowned. They needed to find out what the other poisons were soon. He looked across at the guard that had been stationed by the doorway to the bedroom.

"Targon," he said. "Could you please ask for a bath to be sent to this room? Ensure that the water is only warm." The guard bowed and quickly disappeared on his errand. When Aragorn returned his attention to the bed, he found that Frodo seemed to have fallen into some strange trance. Sea-blue eyes were fixed on some distant vision that the King could not see. Aragorn wondered at what lonely place his friend had disappeared to, and if he would ever come back. As Sam faithfully cleaned his master's face and hands with a cool cloth, Aragorn sighed to himself. He did not think Frodo had much longer before his condition would reach the point of no return.

The King's gaze shifted from his ailing friend to the tray of herbs resting innocently on the bedside table. Aragorn had rearranged them so they were separated into five groups. The first group was a remedy to common animal poisons. The second group targeted belladonna poisoning, while the third counteracted the effects of wolfsbane. The fourth was a rather nasty mixture that would cause one to bring up anything and everything in their stomach. The fifth group consisted of the plants and herbs that were not required in any of the other groups. But it was the fourth pile that Aragorn concentrated his gaze on most. While in some cases this particular concoction of plants was very useful, if given in too strong a concentration, it would kill, burning its victim from the inside outwards.

It was in this moment that the apprentice of Lord Elrond missed his teacher most. The art of healing was well learned and practised among Men and Elves, but for them, treating Halflings was still an incomplete science. Due to his small size, Frodo had been given medicines in such strength as would be administered to a child of Men while he had been in Rivendell, and while he had healed after the completion of his Quest. However, these modified concentrations had not always been enough to overcome whatever ailment was afflicting the hobbit. On one occasion it had even been too much. And that was the problem.

Aragorn knew that by some way or another, Frodo would have to receive some external help in bringing up the poison. And there were several ways that this could be done. However, while Frodo had been entombed in slumber, Aragorn had decided that giving him this fourth group of mixed herbs would be the most effective course of action. It was simply a matter of finding a safe dosage to give to the hobbit, and of waiting for the opportune moment. For they had no room for errors.

Yet for the moment they had to delay. With this particular concoction of plants, Frodo was not able to receive continuous doses until Aragorn was satisfied that enough of the poison had been brought up. At the most, Frodo could receive two administrations. Any more, and the acid already naturally in his stomach would become strong enough to burn holes straight through it. No... Aragorn would have to wait until enough of the poison had entered Frodo's stomach so that as much as possible could be brought up in one go. Just as long as he didn't bring up too much...

"My Lord?" Aragorn looked up at the guard standing in the doorway of the room. "The bath is here, my Lord."

Aragorn nodded to the guard and watched as two servants brought in the tub. He did not miss the curious glances they surreptitiously threw towards the bed. He frowned slightly to himself. It had been too much to hope that rumours of this condemned ordeal would not leak out. Though he admitted that he had hoped to be granted more time before they did. However, it was not to be helped. As the servants stepped out of the room, he turned his full attention back to Frodo. Sam had already begun to undress him. He waved off Aragorn's silent offer of assistance, and the Man rose to his feet to go and check that the temperature of the water was safe.

He had barely taken two steps before Sam's sharp call gave him cause to whirl back around to the bed. Gandalf, who had been standing like a statue as he stared out of the window, suddenly snapped to attention and his piercing gaze honed in on the two hobbits.

"His bruises are getting worse!" cried Sam just as Aragorn was about to question him. Both Healer and Wizard were instantly by the bedside, looking down on the subject of their worry. Aragorn's trained eyes swept over the abused skin, noting grimly that indeed the gardener was right. But not only had Frodo's previous bruises worsened – but new ones seemed to have blossomed into crushed roses of blues and purples as well. These new markings were strange enough on their own. However – it was where they were situated that really snagged Aragorn's wonder. The left ankle, left shoulder and upper left arm were all vividly discoloured.

From what he had been able to guess and gather so far, it seemed that Frodo had somehow awkwardly twisted his now-blackened ankle approximately four days ago – around the time when he had been kidnapped by Desmond and Reynard. While Aragorn would have been able to explain a bruise in that area that was obviously a few days old, he could not explain bruising that had come up a few days late. When he had conducted his initial check of Frodo, the ankle had been swollen and inflamed – but not bruised.

So what, then, of the other new bruises? Could they all be in any way connected? Well... the left shoulder had been rather tender ever since Weathertop, and probably would remain so for the rest of Frodo's life. The event of bruising did not startle Aragorn so much as the time when the bruising had shown – it had definitely come up around the same time as these other new specimens. The left arm also seemed to be fairly easily explained, for that was where Seregon had gripped the limb in crushing force as he twisted it cruelly as far around Frodo's back as was possible without having to sever the bonds tying his hands together. But again the bruising was surfacing later than it should. Was this, then, a new sign of some sort?

Aragorn's frown deepened as he seemed to be creating more questions than he was formulating answers. He turned his direction from the shoulder and arm for the time being and examined the battered ribcage.

Here the injury had definitely worsened. The skin – which had been a violent shade of purple – had now blackened. The area had also become swollen, and here and there was a scattering of shining scarlet beads. Once more did Aragorn's frown deepen. When he had first studied this abrasion, he had noted how the bruising had been covered with a light graze of scabbed blood. Now, it seemed that these scabs had somehow broken. Even as he watched, the ruby droplets distended as if they were globules of opaque red glass being heated and blown to make a shape that could not yet be identified.

And identify the mystery behind these wounds was what Aragorn had to do – and quickly. But at this point in time, the answer eluded him completely. He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it a little, and decided that he would think more on this matter once Frodo had been bathed and was settled back into a clean bed.

Carefully he lifted the comatose hobbit into his arms and bore him to the already cooling tub. When Frodo was lowered into the water, only then did he show signs of awareness. His eyelids fluttered, though they did not open, and a deep shudder stole through his body. For a moment his face contorted as though he wanted to cry out in discomfort or protest, yet his lips remained silent and no sound escaped him. Then suddenly he was lax once more, becoming startlingly like a caught fish that flounders on the dock where a fisherman has left it, only to quickly give up and fall still. Aragorn sorrowed for the sudden lack of movement.

With the help of Samwise, the two deftly washed the sweat and sick from Frodo. On a whim, Aragorn added a few peppermint leaves, hoping to thin out the congestion in the Ringbearer's lungs. While Frodo had been sleeping, his breathing had become increasingly laboured and a hacking cough had prevented him from obtaining true rest. Though with the dark visions that seemed to be invading the Ringbearer's mind, Aragorn did not think there was much hope of him resting well anyway. Nor did he think that the peppermint leaves would help much at this point, but until Merry and Pippin returned and he knew more, there was little else he could do for the time being.

Speaking of the two youngest hobbits – it was as though they had been reading his mind. Almost as soon as the thought had gone through Aragorn's head of how he hoped they would be returning soon, the bedroom door was bursting open and in entered the two, both wearing identical looks of barely contained triumph. Aragorn noticed that Merry's hands tightly clutched his balled-up cloak to him. As they entered further into the room, a servant bearing a stack of clean linen followed them in. She moved to the soiled bed and began to change the sheets, working quickly and silently.

"So you _have_ decided to return," said Aragorn to the hobbits. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd gone back to the Shire after all."

"Not yet," said Merry, the slight edge to the King's voice not succeeding in dampening his mood.

"What's that smell?" said Pippin suddenly, his face scrunching up in distaste.

"Mr Frodo was sick again," said Sam miserably. Good moods now forgotten, the two newcomers were by the bath in an instant, looking worriedly at their beloved cousin.

"He looks worse," said Pippin dejectedly.

"I'm afraid he is," sighed Aragorn heavily. "But it is to be ex-"

"What's that bruise there?"

Aragorn stopped at Merry's question and looked to where the hobbit was indicating. The King found his eyes widening in grim surprise. On Frodo's right shoulder was a fairly large bruise, perhaps as big as his hand. Aragorn's wide expression suddenly contorted into a frown. That bruise _was_ his hand! That was the exact place where he had held Frodo as he turned the hobbit onto his side just as he started throwing up again. Aragorn's frown deepened. Alright – so he _may_ have used a _little_ bit more force than he should have when he had moved Frodo. But he had certainly not applied enough strength in his grip for it to cause bruising.

Very suddenly his body tensed. Abruptly Aragorn rose to his feet and began pacing quickly. "What is it, Aragorn?" asked Gandalf. But Aragorn did not answer at once. His mind had flown back to the time – so many years ago – when Elrond had taught him about illnesses that some Men were born with. If he could remember correctly, there was one where the blood was affected...

"Anaemia," he muttered at length.

"A _what_?" said Merry, his brow contorting into a confused frown.

"Anaemia," repeated Aragorn, more to himself than the others. "Where there is a lack of red blood cells, causing paleness, weakness, and easy bruising and bleeding. A disease in which Men are either born with it or not, although there is one known plant that will also give symptoms of the same effects."

"Aragorn," said Gandalf slowly. "What is this plant?" For a moment Aragorn clenched his eyes shut as he ran through the extensive list of poisonous plants stored in his long memory. Then suddenly his eyes snapped open and he turned to the wizard.

"Meadow Saffron," he said. He turned back to Merry and Pippin who were both looking quite bewildered. "Did you find the jar?"

"We found a lot more than the jar," said Pippin, the jubilant grin he had been wearing before returning in full force. As he spoke, Merry hastily moved over to a small empty table and laid his previously forgotten bundle on it. He carefully unfolded it to reveal a jar made from thick glass. Upon first glance it appeared to be empty, but if one looked closer, they could see that the bottom was coated with a thin layer of a most unappealing glutinous ooze.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, rays catching on the thick glass. Tiny shots of dazzling light winked around at the room, making the jar look almost friendly. Sam eyed the thing with revulsion.

"Thank you," said Aragorn. He moved to inspect the jar for himself. Gingerly he lifted it up with his finger and thumb, holding it at eye level. He tipped the lip of the jar towards him, watching as the small remnants of poison fell lazily where gravity pulled them. The ooze _was_ thick, yet somewhat runny like honey, and when more was held in a smaller area, it was almost opaque. Yet light still filtered through it, bringing out the small flecks of poorly mashed particles into sharper contrast. It was these particles which Aragorn examined closely, for hopefully they would provide him with some much-desired answers. For long moments did he stare hard at the poison, taking careful note of the flecks of solid differentiable matter.

The smallest of the specks were coloured a dark purple hue. That would be from the berries of the belladonna plant. Then there were the long, thin segments of a root system, and the small mustard-yellow seeds – both belonging to wolfsbane. But what of the small black seeds? Were they from the meadow saffron plant? Or were they from another?

"Sam," said Aragorn at last. "Would you be able to identify meadow saffron?"

"What – from what's in that jar, sir?" said Sam, a hint of doubt lacing his tone. Aragorn nodded, his eyes diverting to the gardener's round face. "I could give it a try, sir," said Sam as his own gaze flicked to Frodo and back. "Though I'm not sure as I'd be able to tell for certain." Aragorn nodded again, this time more in encouragement. Sam hesitantly moved from the bath-side to the small table where the King now stood. He tentatively took the jar in his own grasp and held it up to eye-level, his sight narrowed down to mere slits of concentrated vision. It was like playing a matching game. He tried to match up what he saw to the image of the plant he had formulated in his mind. It was certainly no easy task, but after some minutes he nodded.

"Aye, sir," he said. "There's meadow saffron in here alright. And I can see the belladonna and wolfsbane. But I think there might be another..." His voice trailed off as he peered closer into the jar. His entire body was tense in concentration and for long moments he remained frozen, almost forgetting to breathe. Everything in the room was silent save for Frodo's ragged breathing. But then suddenly Sam moved, lowering the jar and taking a deep sniff of it. His face screwed up in distaste.

"What is it?" asked Pippin, not being able to contain himself any longer.

"Poison hemlock," said Sam darkly. "This stuff stinks like mice and no mistake."

"Are you sure you're not smelling rat poison?" said Gandalf.

"I think I'm smelling both, sir," said Sam. "But I would bet anything I own that there's poison hemlock in this. The plant's got a white flower, and you can just see signs of crushed petals in here. And when you bruise it, it gives off a smell like mice."

"Poison hemlock can often be found on the banks of the Brandywine," said Merry suddenly. "My da's told me about it. Its primal effects are stimulatory. I'm not sure about the rest of you, but when Frodo first woke up he seemed to me to be unusually aware for someone who had been poisoned."

"You're right, Merry," said Aragorn. "I had wondered about it myself. And now that I think more on it, Frodo seems to be suffering from most of the other effects of hemlock poisoning."

"So that's four plants we have," said Merry. "Sam, can you find anything else?"

"I'm not sure, Mr Merry," said Sam, returning his gaze to the jar. "I would've thought that there'd be more plants in here than what we've found. But if there are, I couldn't tell you what they were."

"But we know someone else who could," said Pippin. Everyone turned sharply to him.

"What do you know?" said Gandalf almost urgently.

"When we were on our way back here," said Merry. "We bumpws into Pip's captain who asked him why he had not reported for duty yesterday. When we told him that we had been running a special errand for the King, he asked us if that was where we were going now. When we told him we were returning from another important errand of the like, he asked if we could pass on a message."

"Indeed?" said Aragorn. "What did he say?"

"He said," Pippin continued. "That in the early hours of this morning some of his men searched an inn of the lower circles – one owned by a man called Mavril. Turns out he had a group of Haradrim hiding out at the bottom of his inn. When Mavril was questioned, he eventually let out that they had been doing some business – selling special herbs and mixtures and such to some friends of his. The guards demanded the names of these friends, and one of those names was Desmond."

"He had come in a few hours before dawn on the fourth of May," said Merry. "He came out about fifteen minutes later with a carefully sealed jar. Mavril didn't know what it was. But the Southron who sold it certainly did."

"But according to the captain," said Pippin quickly, seeing the looks of blissful hope surfacing on the others' expressions. "The man refuses to tell them more about it."

Aragorn let out an explosive breath as he ran his hands through his hair. At last they were being given a bit of luck. "Did the captain say anything else to you?" he asked.

"Yes," said Pippin. "He said that two of the escaped prisoners were also found hiding out in the bottom of the inn – Moragar and Valmir. They haven't spoken either, but the captain thinks they know where the other escaped prisoners might be – including Seregon."

"Where are they being held now?"

"They're all in the jailhouse in the third circle under constant surveillance," answered Merry. "The captain says you're welcome to question them for yourself if you like."

Aragorn nodded, his glance returning to Frodo. The hobbit was beginning to shiver again. Berating himself for being so easily distracted, Aragorn snatched up a large towel and moved back to the bath, lifting out Frodo and drying him quickly yet carefully. He lay him back down on his newly re-dressed bed and pulled a clean nightshirt over the heavy head which Sam handed him. When Frodo was settled, Aragorn felt his forehead, his eyes darkening and his heart falling to feel how hot the skin still was. Frodo weakly recoiled at the touch and a frail groan passed his lips. "Ah, Frodo," murmured Aragorn. "What are we going to do now?" Frodo did not respond, other to crease his forehead into a frown. Behind his closed lids, his eyes were darting about. He was caught in yet another nightmare.

"Gandalf," said Aragorn softly, not wanting to disturb his small friend any more for the time being. "I have a mind to go and question these men for myself with Legolas when he returns. Would you mind watching Frodo while I am gone?"

"Not at all," said Gandalf, already settling himself in a chair by the bedside.

"Thank you," said Aragorn. His gaze strayed to the window and he looked onto the view it offered of the city. "It is time that we got some answers," he added, and a note of finality was in his voice.

TBC

* * *

_A/N – I can't tell you all how sorry I am for not updating sooner. But I've had a tonne of schoolwork to do (read my bio for more elaboration) and I've had the worst writer's block ever. I know, pretty lame and old excuse, right? But it's true and it has been absolutely horrible. But... better late than never I guess. So I hope you enjoy this chapter. It is dedicated to Lexi as an early birthday present. Happy Birthday Lexi! :D_

_Astron-Meares – I think there's still a bit of drama to come, so hopefully you won't get _too_ bored. But please hang in there! After all, I don't want to be sued for murder by writing. :P_

_Breon Briarwood – Goodness, I hope your fingers grow back or you may end up losing the rest of your hands and your arms too! I'll try as best as I can to update as quickly as possible. But it is proving rather difficult... stupid school._

_FrodoBaggins87 – I'm so happy beyond reckoning to hear that you're going to keep reading this fic. And you're absolutely right – school is the most evil horrible abomination of a creation to have come to this planet. And I hope the villains will be caught too. ;)_

_Iorhael – I agree. Poison is proving to be rather difficult. I say kudos to Aragorn and Elrond for having to deal with it in some of their patients. Let's hope that Aragorn can deal with _this_ poison though. But I think that he is certainly well on his way to finding the full remedies now..._

_josh11025 – Thank you for the lovely compliment! :) I'm glad to know that you're enjoying this story so much. I'll update as soon as I can. I hope you can wait though... ;)_

_Kaewi – I hope this chapter has given you some answers. But I thank you (and Kellie too for that matter) for providing the questions and pointing these things out. Lol, I may yet hold you to your agreement to go over my chapters before posting. ;) So keep a sharp eye... :D_

_Kellie – Again, I am immeasurably sorry about the long wait for this update. But I hope that I've answered some of your questions okay and that I've raised not too many more. And thank you muchly for the licence to be as evil as possible. But don't worry, there's still a bit more drama to come before Frodo's on the definite road to recovery._

_lindahoyland – Good to know that I'm not the only one giving poor Frodo a horrible time. But let's hope that no more major complications arise! But we shall have to just wait and see I suppose... :P _

_lovethosehobbits – Glad to hear you're still enjoying it. :D I only hope the delay in updating hasn't put you off!_

_Midgette – Don't worry, I've been terrible at reviewing stories too lately. But I am glad to know that you're still enjoying this fic. I hope you continue to enjoy it too. ;)_


	16. You shall see what you have done Pt 1

_**Every Man for Himself**_

_Disclaimer: I is not owning LOTR._

**Chapter 16: "And you shall see what you have done…"**

_Part 1_

_7 May 3019 – Early Afternoon_

He may have grown up amongst the Elves, but no matter how much time he spent among those ethereal folk, Aragorn son of Arathorn would never acquire their unrivalled sense of patience and serenity. Despite the Númenorean blood that flowed strongly through his veins, when it really came down to it, he was still only human. And humans were infamous for their lack of patience, at the best of times. And in this time, Aragorn could not help but feel impatient, and idle.

He suffered the symptoms now; the gnawing sense within the lowest pit of his stomach, festering with the knowledge that he was wasting time that could be better spent, the restlessness of mind and body, a gaze that could not remain fixed on one object for longer than a heartbeat…

Having been brought up in Imladris by Elves, Aragorn had come to appreciate all the more consciously how short life really was for himself. As he had matured, he had made it an unvoiced law that he would not waste a single moment of his precious time. Every breath he took, he would spend it doing something worthwhile. For almost all of his time, this personal vow had gone unbroken – except for now.

Now, at this moment, he sat on a chair in a room feeling more useless than he had ever felt before in what felt to be a _very_ long time. He had sorted through and sent for herbs enough times to make himself and the messengers blue in the face. He had checked Frodo's physical injuries and done what he could to ease them, though at this point in time, there was not much more he could do beyond what had already been done. He had given his friend some tea and a little broth, so that he would at least have something in his stomach to throw up when the time next came. He had asked for documents to be sent to him from the Houses of Healing concerning the identified toxins and the presumed animal venom. He had read through all of these files several times over so that he had almost committed every word to memory…

In this time, though he hated to admit it, he had done just about everything he could for now. All that he really had left to do was to await the return of Legolas so that they could go to the jailhouse and question the Haradrim convict and the recaptured fugitives. But even with this thought around to keep him from losing his mind, he simply could not ignore the amount of time that had passed since he had last done something productive. This waiting was driving him perilously close to the very brink of sanity. There had to be something that he could do. He thought of using the opportunity to take a quick sleep, but quickly discarded the idea. With Frodo's condition so unstable and the times of his lurching reactions to the poison so unpredictable, Aragorn dared not to detach his attention from the situation so completely before it was absolutely necessary. His mind then strayed up to his private study, where lay a rather alarming stack of files, orders, decrees, laws, legal cases and agreements that were waiting for his approval and signature. He only briefly considered sending for them before he abandoned the idea. He was far too distracted right now to give politics the concentration it demanded.

So it was that he was left to his own thoughts of ever increasing frustration. He did not know how much longer he could stand to wait like this. If he had to continue in such a vein for much longer, he really _would_ go mad. He simply could not stand waiting.

Although… as his thoughts continued to amble, the more he dwelled on it, the more he had to admit that there were _some_ things worth waiting for. Even as he sat ever vigilant by Frodo's bedside, images of his beloved filled his mind like a much welcomed breeze that whispers through the trees on a warm summer's day; the kind that refreshes one whom is newly awakened and still dazed with sleep. He saw his lady's fair face – altogether lovely and perfect – smiling with a rare joy that she saved especially for him. Her bright eyes sparkled with all the radiance of the stars, and her skin glowed softly as though the moon reserved its shimmer for her alone. Her raven hair was unbound – just how she knew he liked it, and the silken locks shifted gently as she laughed, the sound like the delicate bells of a tinkling stream.

Even just thinking about his betrothed brought the King some small peace of mind. Saving a small smile for himself, he focused his gaze back on Frodo. Aragorn's smile melted almost instantly into an expression of worry. If only the ailing hobbit before him could be healed just as simply by the mental images of fair things… It had only been a matter of hours since he had been dosed with the poison, and already he seemed to be approaching the point of no return. His fever raged, his stomach continued to bring up foul fluids, and he was plagued with horrendous nightmares that prevented him from getting any true sleep.

And there was nothing that Aragorn could do about it. He could not recall ever being in such a deeply maddening situation. This was perhaps _worse_ than the precarious time spent during his first few days back in Rivendell, when it was unknown whether Frodo would survive from his fatal wounding by the Witch-king. At least during that time Lord Elrond had been in charge, and he had had a good idea on what he was doing. Aragorn's role had been mostly to observe, follow instructions, and ensure that nothing else was wrong with the hobbit.

He knew that he was fortunate to have had little dealings with cases of poisoning in his life thus far. But now… he really wished that he had more experience. It was all very good to memorise methods from a textbook, but to actually put those methods into practise was another thing entirely. And here in the City of Kings, there was no Lord Elrond to instruct and correct him. He was on his own.

And it was torture – pure torture – being forced to sit and watch as his dear friend – his _hero_ – plunged ever deeper into pain and fear and darkness. He hated that there was so little he could do at this point in time. He hated the feeling of helplessness that plagued his mind, body and soul. But even more, he hated the knowledge that lurked in the back of his mind, the small spiteful voice that whispered to him his guilt. He should have done what the kidnappers had asked from the beginning. If he had just followed their instructions, none of this would have happened.

A dull fury throbbed through his veins. How could he have ever been so worried about how much gold the city was losing? Frodo's life was so much more important! Aragorn had spent so many hours already fighting to keep him alive, in Ithilien, in the Wild, in Rivendell… All during the Quest and after it, nothing had been more important than Frodo's health and safety. Yet at the prospect of losing a bit of gold, he had acted no better than the criminals with whom he was dealing.

Aragorn gave not so much a sigh as an exhale of frustration and anger. He ran his hands through his hair, rubbing furiously at his eyes. This would not do. Not for the first time in the last few months did he think he was unready to rule a realm.

"Don't you think you are being a bit hard on yourself?"

Aragorn did not look around at the wizard. "How long have you been eavesdropping on my thoughts?" he wanted to know.

"Long enough. And you're avoiding the question."

"I can't help but feel responsible, Gandalf," sighed Aragorn, knowing it was fruitless to ignore the Istar. "All of this could have been avoided if I had done what those men told me to."

"You know that for certain, do you? No matter what, those men would have poisoned Frodo before handing him over?"

"I feel certain they would have done _something_ to him," answered Aragorn grimly.

"Feeling is very different to knowing, my friend," said Gandalf neutrally. "None can know for certain what the future will bring, not even Elrond or Galadriel herself. The future is governed by choices, which are ruled by the hearts and minds of those who make them. There is no certainty in what paths will be chosen."

"I know all of this," said Aragorn, hinting at impatience.

"I know," agreed Gandalf, moving to Aragorn's side. His piercing gaze rested on the hobbit occupying the bed before them. He shook his head slightly and rested a hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "You could do with a little reminding, though, I think. You could not have known what those men would do."

"I still could have acted differently." Aragorn's anger at himself flared as he rose to his feet and began pacing. "If I had followed their instructions, they would not have had such reason to do what they did. I did not need to bring the others with me. Sam knows where the men were hiding out. Guards could have been sent to the house after the exchange had taken place."

"There is no guarantee that they would have returned there."

"Where else would they have gone then?" said Aragorn shortly

"Who knows? That is my point. Aragorn, we could debate about this for a month and still resolve nothing."

"Then why did you bring this up in the first place?"

"Because your feelings of guilt are affecting you. You are getting caught in the trap of hindsight, of _what if_. You are getting too caught up in thoughts and memories and you are not acting on anything like you should or would. Wondering what might have been will bring you nothing that you want or need. It will only plague your mind which would be better served thinking how to help Frodo _now_."

"That doesn't make me feel any better about what happened," said Aragorn grimly.

"No," said Gandalf. "I didn't say it should. But knowledge of the past can sometimes be just as perilous as knowledge of the future, you know. It can cause just as much emotion, whether it be in the form of despair, anger or even joy. But all the same, a man must learn to work with the tools he is given, lest all be wasted."

Aragorn did not reply, but stopped pacing as his gaze caught on the other three hobbits in the room. They had one by one given into exhaustion and fallen asleep, Merry giving an occasional mutter, Pippin giving an occasional twitch, and Sam giving an occasional snore.

It was the gardener that captivated Aragorn's eye. Ever since their first meeting, Aragorn had not stopped admiring the pure dedication and strength of spirit that Samwise possessed. With only hope, loyalty and love as his motives, he had managed to accomplish some truly astounding feats in even the most abominable of conditions. Aragorn had encountered many people in his life who could do with taking a leaf or two from Sam's book – himself included…

Looking back to Frodo, Aragorn felt resolve harden again in his heart. He glanced at Gandalf, whose beard twitched as he gave an encouraging smile. He would not give in to despair. Not while hope still remained on the road ahead.

* * *

Time continued to pass. Aragorn was beginning to get impatient again. Though Frodo's condition had not really changed much since the bath, they could not count on the situation remaining thus for much longer. They needed answers – and soon. 

Putting down the parchment he had been reading (again), Aragorn looked about his surroundings distractedly, hoping against hope to find something he could do that had been overlooked before. All he found were three hobbits lying fast asleep on the second bed.

Aragorn shook his head. Before falling asleep, Merry had managed to request that he not be allowed to sleep for too long. Aragorn and Gandalf had both agreed to this, though neither had made any move to follow through. The hobbits had only really been able to snatch naps here and there for a couple of hours at a time over the past few days. Couple that with the emotional worries they had suffered for what had happened to Frodo, and the wizard and king found that they simply did not have the heart to rouse them unnecessarily from a well-earned sleep. After all that they had been through on the Quest, with still accustoming themselves to the fact that Frodo had been returned to them alive, if recovering, to have him now almost ripped from their grasp again would surely be breaking their hearts. With every hour that passed, Aragorn could see the dwindling hope in their eyes. Even Sam was starting to lose faith. The least that could be done for them is to let them have a half-decent sleep while they still could.

Aragorn, on the other hand, could not yet afford such a luxury. He stifled a groan of frustration as he got to his feet and began pacing. Surely Legolas would be returning soon? They needed to go to the jailhouse and interrogate the prisoners as soon and quickly as possible. When they had obtained the information they needed, they would no doubt have only a small window of opportunity in which they could prepare. Then it would be time to begin treating the Ringbearer.

* * *

When Legolas had entered Frodo and Sam's room to report back to Aragorn, he had not been expecting to be immediately dragged back out again. Though it took a lot to surprise him, he found (to his slight annoyance) that it took several moments for him to regain his wits enough to understand, at least partially, what was happening. A heavily cloaked Aragorn dressed in his Ranger gear had grasped his arm and was leading him at a tremendous pace back out of the citadel. 

"Aragorn," said Legolas, his approach direct. "What are you doing?"

"Merry and Pippin have brought news of some… _informants_ that are being held in the jailhouse. You and I are going to interrogate them. One is a southron with information on the poison administered to Frodo. Two are of the escaped prisoners who may have knowledge of the whereabouts of the men who began this whole despicable affair."

"My friend," said Legolas, manoeuvring himself out of the King's grasp and matching his stride in one fluid motion. "You are worked up enough to thoroughly interrogate an entire _army_ and still gain good results. Might I ask why you feel it necessary for me to accompany you?"

"It doesn't matter how 'worked up' I am," said Aragorn testily. "It is still going to be a hard trial getting any useful information from _these_ men. They are not going to break easily. In my experience, I have found that Elves gain answers of greater quality more efficiently than anyone – save perhaps certain Tooks and Bagginses. But considering the circumstances, I deem that you are a more suitable candidate than any of the hobbits to help me."

"Fair enough," said Legolas. "But tell me, exactly what information do we want?"

"I want to know all of the ingredients in that poison," said Aragorn, his expression hardening. "And I want to know exactly what time frame we have in which to work. I want to be able to predict what is going to happen and when… And I want information on where those low-life brigands are hiding out." He glanced over to his friend, their eyes meeting. The Elf was once more startled as he saw the cold, hard fire smouldering in those stormy depths. "I want to get to the bottom of this, Legolas."

* * *

Captain Tharlon had been having a pretty average day. He had reported for duty after the midday meal, as usual. He had inspected the various cells containing prisoners, as usual, and had found that matters were to his satisfaction. He had sat himself down behind the desk in the front room of the jailhouse and had begun working on the ever increasing pile of paperwork that the previous captain on duty had conveniently overlooked, as usual. Every half hour or so he would get up to check on the prisoners, though they barely made a peep. Perhaps that was what worried him. But though he checked on them regularly and with great care, he did not find any evidence to suggest that they were up to something. Perhaps they were finally beginning to see the error in their ways, and that they deserved what they got… 

Who was he fooling?

Those men locked away in there were among the lowest of the low. They were nothing but mere scumbags who took advantage of their own city being in doubt and confusion as the shock of the war began to ever so slowly fade. These men had been breaking near every law there was just to see if they could do it – to see how far they could push the boundaries. Needless to say, they were getting further and further every time. And the numbers were still increasing. Every day at least three more criminals would be brought in, though some would also be let back out. It was almost sickening. Nearly the entire lower half of the city was running amok, it seemed, and when these louts were brought in and questioned, they would merely shrug casually and say that the opportunity had presented itself. They had needed some fast gold, or a fast drink or job or woman or anything, really. Tharlon could barely believe that this was the same city of people whom had rallied together with her allies to help overthrow the forces of the Dark Lord.

Were these not supposed to be the blessed days of the King? But where was His Majesty? Where was the Lord Elfstone with his mighty Sword of Legend – the Hero of the Pelennor, the Hero of the Black Gates? Sitting up in his palace, Tharlon did not doubt, having a marvellous time feasting and drinking with his lordly friends. _Celebrating the great victory_, no doubt. While in the meantime, Tharlon was stuck in the third level watching over this supposed victory. For victories, particularly in war, were not about the statistics. It was not about how many orcs and other foul creatures had been slain, nor was it about their own numbers that had been lost. It was about how well they pulled through as a people, after all of the numbers had been counted up, after swords had been sheathed and men had returned to their homes. It was about how well they could return to their normal lives, not forgetting the horror of the war entirely, but not living forever fearful and grieving in its shadow either. But as things stood now… Tharlon sighed wearily as he signed another paper and transferred it to the pile of completed documents. The true victory was still to be won. If Minas Tirith was to recover and become whole again, then this King was going to have to start being more active – so Tharlon thought.

Of course, his Lordship _did_ go to the Houses of Healing and help there how he could when he had 'moments to spare', and Tharlon thought no less of him for it. Indeed, the Lord Aragorn had called his own brother and nephew back from death's door. But if the King spent even half the time helping to restore the lower levels to order as he spent restoring people's health, then surely the victory would be that little bit closer to fulfilment?

Tharlon shook his head in silent disappointment. He supposed that the city would settle down… _eventually_. But until then, he could only continue doing his job. And speaking of his job…

Tharlon looked up distractedly from the paperwork at the sound of the door to the jailhouse opening and closing again softly. Expecting to see a guard bringing in yet another offender, he was most surprised to see two cloaked and hooded men approaching his desk.

"Can I help you, sirs?" he said, summoning his best commanding voice that brooked no argument. He knew that this particular tone of voice, when coupled with the icy stare of his steel eyes, had been known to make many men quail. But these two did not flinch in the slightest.

"Yes," spoke the taller of the two. "I have been informed that you have two of the escaped prisoners returned to your custody."

"You were correctly informed," said Tharlon warily, now eyeing these visitors with suspicion. He was certain that he had heard that voice somewhere before. And surely he recognised the matching cloaks these two men wore?

"I have also been told that you have a number of Haradrim locked up in here, some of whom were only quite recently brought in within the last few days."

"Your informant was correct again," said Tharlon. "Might I ask why you seek this confirmation?"

"My friend and I were hoping to question the two fugitives and one of the Haradrim – one whom has already been questioned concerning a sale he made to one of the city's men a few days ago."

"You mean the Lieutenant?"

There was a pause.

"_Lieutenant_?"

"That's the only thing we've been able to get out of him. The owner of the inn he was hiding in confirmed that he was the one who had made a sale over the past few days, and other deals besides. But when we questioned him, the only thing we've been able to get is that he was one of the leaders of the Haradrim forces."

"If this lieutenant is the one who made the sale, then he is one whom we wish to question. Him and the two recaptured prisoners."

"And what authority do you have to question these prisoners?"

Tharlon glanced between the two figures as they exchanged a silent look between them, though how either of them could see beyond the dark shadows of the other's hood, he could not imagine. But then slowly the more slender, slightly shorter one nodded, and as if such had been planned and rehearsed days before, the two men lowered their hoods.

"Call it a personal dispute if you will," said the taller, and Tharlon felt himself unconsciously stiffen to attention. "But these men you have in your holding have information that I need at once, if the Ringbearer, Frodo Baggins, is to live. He has taken gravely ill and has been sorely treated at the hands of three other men of this city. I would have these three judged for not only this crime, but the many others they have committed against Minas Tirith. They _will_ be made an example of to all others who think they can get away with criminal activity in this realm."

For one long moment, Tharlon looked into the eyes of this man, and he understood. He did not know why or how, but he did know that this was simply one man trying to do his best by both himself and others. King of Gondor and Arnor he may be, and though he was only very recently crowned, Tharlon saw the love he had of his lands and his people. Without fully realising it, he found himself bowing low to his liege.

"You will wish to interrogate these men privately, I assume?" he said upon rising, throwing a quick glance to the King's companion.

"Yes," said Aragorn. "Bring us to them."

* * *

Within Minas Tirith's chief jailhouse, there were two identical rooms that remained empty and locked at all times, save for the odd occasion. As it so happened, the afternoon of the seventh day of May was one of these rare occasions, and Valmir found himself suddenly listed as one of the exclusive few for whom the doors would unlock. He was to be questioned, said the guards. Privately, said the captain. 

He cared not. Truthfully, he could not see the point of bringing him to this 'interrogation cell', as he had heard it so named. He felt no desperate need to divulge his secrets. He could not see what his questioners would gain from speaking with him. They would receive nothing of importance… unless helping them would be to his advantage, of course. For that was the one rule in which he abided by without fail – do nothing unless there was a profit to be made.

But as it was, he had already been questioned, and he had said nothing. He had been assured that he would not be gaining anything from speaking, either. So it was with an admittedly smug smile that he watched the door to the cell open, and his interrogators entered.

They were both tall – much taller than he himself, and they both carried themselves with a grace foreign to his knowledge. They were hooded with the same type of cloak, their features melting in the shadows to a black pool of nothing. Immediately Valmir's curiosity piqued. These were no guards of the citadel. Indeed – he did not know _who_ they were. His caution rising, he sat back and watched as the two seated themselves at their ease. Neither one lowered their hood.

For a long moment, all was silent in the cell. Then with a slightly ominous thud, the door was closed and locked from the outside. Valmir's gaze darted between his two new companions. Neither one seemed to be in any hurry to move or speak. They both simply sat and watched him; for although he could not see their features, he had no doubt that the small pricks of reflected light buried deep in the hoods were directed straight at him.

His impatience grew. Why did these men not begin their questioning and get it over with? After all – the sooner they started, the sooner they would realise that they would learn nothing from him. Then he could go back to his own cell and return to the slumber he had been interrupted from… Half unconsciously, his knee began to jog up and down in time to his bristling frustration.

Both Aragorn and Legolas noted the movement and smiled to themselves. Though this man had been convicted for several heinous crimes and had been living his chosen lifestyle for some time, both Man and Elf knew that they had dealt with worse. This criminal before them was not young, but he was still young enough to make mistakes of the inexperienced.

They did not have to wait as long as they had originally thought. It took perhaps another minute before finally, the man spoke. "What do you want?"

His tone was harsh and biting – but forced. Deep beneath the bravado, Legolas sensed that there was a genuine seed of worry that was beginning to blossom. He focused his gaze on the man's eyes, and observed sharply. He remained silent.

Aragorn too decided to hold his silence for a little longer. Though he was painfully aware that they had a limited amount of time before they must move on, the countless years of experience and training he had endured told him to hold out for a bit more. Soon it would pay off… Soon…

"Are you going to question me or are you going to waste your time looking at my pretty face?" snarled the man. In the depths of his hood, Aragorn allowed a small smile.

"Which would you prefer?" he said softly. Valmir's gaze turned sharply to him, trying to see beyond the shadows.

"Lower your hood," he said, his stomach jolting to hear the words slip from his mouth. He mentally cursed himself. How had he come to pieces so quickly? He did not take his eyes from the one who had spoken, and though he could not discern the features, he knew that somewhere in there, a mouth was smiling.

"Why should I?" said the speaker.

"I want to see _your_ pretty face," answered Valmir, almost mockingly.

"And I want some answers," Aragorn shot back. Two sets of eyebrows rose. Legolas momentarily tore his gaze from Valmir and silently regarded his companion. "Though I have been informed that you are less than obliging when it comes to giving information."

"Why should I answer your questions?" said Valmir, somehow beginning to feel more like himself again as he climbed back to the top of his game. "There's nothing in it for me."

"Is that what you think?" murmured Legolas. Valmir's eyes shot back to his second 'interrogator'. Unease began to overpower frustration.

"Why should I do anything if there's nothing in it for me?" he defended. "I know I'm going to be stuck in this dump for a long time. There's no point saying otherwise. There's nothing you can do for me in here."

"Wrong," said Legolas. Now it was Aragorn's turn to consider his friend. "We can give you assurances."

Valmir snorted in disdain and Aragorn frowned. Where was this going? Aragorn looked between the two other occupants of the cell. Legolas was making a connection. He knew something… but what?

"Assurances, eh?" said Valmir, stretching out in his chair. He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "Go on then."

"We can assure that your wife will remain safe, for starters."

Valmir went rigid. His stony gaze bored straight into the eyes of the Elf, if he knew it. A look of anger crossed his features. For a moment it looked like he was ready to get up and hurl his chair straight at Legolas. However, some force stayed him, and he spoke. His words carried the faintest trace of a tremble. Fresh anger was beginning to boil. A sharp edge of light entered his eyes. Aragorn and Legolas began to appreciate why this man was considered so dangerous.

"What have you done to my wife?"

Valmir could feel his game slipping again, but he did not care. She had been through too much already on his account…

"We have done nothing," said Aragorn, realising at last where Legolas had been leading. "However, I'm sure you will agree that her current position is not a particularly favourable one right now. No doubt you still have enemies that run free in the streets that would love nothing more than to harm you through her. We can offer her a much safer place to stay – perhaps even a secure job as well."

"All so I can give you information that would put her in even more danger anyway," said Valmir after a long pause. "How noble – how _convenient_. Saving the innocent you condemned."

"You are the one who broke the laws of this city," reminded Legolas softly. "Her life has been in your hands since the two of you met. You can either take this opportunity to tell us what information you have and save her for good, or you can leave her to fend for herself… leave her to clean up the mess you left behind for her."

There was a long moment of silence. Valmir lowered his gaze to the table, pondering his options. Truth be told, he had been concerned about the wellbeing of his wife for a long time… for her and…

"Alright," he said at last. There was finality in his tone and when he looked up, his gaze was steady. "I'll answer your questions if you help my wife… and my girl. She's old enough to start learning a trade, you know."

Aragorn and Legolas did not need to look at each other to know the thoughts of the other. "Very well then," said Aragorn, leaning forward in his seat. "Let us begin."

* * *

Gandalf shifted in his seat by Frodo's bed. With a glance out the window, he reckoned that Aragorn and Legolas should have arrived at the jailhouse by now. He hoped they would return quickly. The afternoon was quickly fading into dusk, and no doubt the coming of night would herald an onslaught of new trials. Gandalf could only hope that they would be ready to face whatever came, and that they would be prepared enough to help their friend in whatever way was necessary. He prayed that Frodo would have the strength to pull through the night. 

Gandalf suppressed a weary sigh as he returned his full vigilance to his charge. The hobbit was still restless in his sleep. His eyes continued to dart beneath closed lids. Though now it was different. The wizard frowned, leaning forward in his seat. Almost imperceptibly, the eyelids themselves were beginning to move. Ever so slightly fluttering up…

"Frodo?" said Gandalf softly. "Frodo, my lad? Can you hear me?"

* * *

"Where is Seregon son of Sergil?" 

"Seregon? Couldn't tell you for sure. He did mention checking in to his old house in the first circle soon as he got out. Not that he would stay there for long. Far too obvious for a man on the run."

"Is there anywhere else he could have gone? Does he own any other property?"

"No, not Seregon. A few of the others did. I know he wanted to get a place in Belfalas though, where his mother was born. If he was staying in the city he might have broken into a deserted house, or stayed with a few associates he has who aren't locked up."

"What about Desmond son of Desril? Have you heard of him?"

"Des? Of _course_ I know him. Seregon taught him everything he knows. Their families were friends – that's how they met. Seregon might've bunked at Des's place."

"Where does he live?"

"In the fourth circle, if you'll believe it. Right next to the inn there, too, I've heard."

"The inn where you were found hiding," said Aragorn. "Some Haradrim soldiers were hiding there as well, were they not?"

"There were a few."

"Did you witness them make any sales or trades?"

"No. But I know a couple had made one or two."

"Do you know anything of these exchanges?"

"I do know that one of them was made with Desmond. Old Mavril who owns the inn told me that one of Seregon's old mates had come in not long before I had. I'd been asking after the others who got out of this place. Mavril thought he heard Des say something about staying at Seregon's for a bit."

"Do you know anything about what Desmond bought?"

"A bit. The one that sold the stuff to him was right proud of it. Said he'd made it himself. A little jar with a whole lot of different poisons in it, all mixed together."

"Did he say anymore about it?"

"Not really. I asked him what stuff was in it, but he wouldn't say."

"Can you tell us anything more about it?"

There was a pause. Valmir fell back in his chair, his eyes closed as he tried to remember. He could hardly believe he was divulging so much information so easily. If he ever got out of this prison he would never be able to stay in the city again. He just hoped that wife and daughter of his were grateful.

"There was one more thing," he said at last, opening his eyes. He looked straight at Aragorn, searching the shadows of the hood. "I asked him how effective it was. I thought something like that must take a few hours at most to kill someone, considering how much raw poison was in it. But he said it wasn't like that at all. It takes about five days to kill a full-grown man. Long, drawn-out torturous death it is too. One of the ways they punish criminals in the south."

"_Five days_? Surely it would take less."

"You'd think, wouldn't you? But no – apparently, as there are so many different poisons in there, they're all kind of fighting with each other to dominate – to have their effects on the body, to be in control. Of course, that doesn't lessen the pain of it none. Apparently after two days even the strongest of men are begging for the end to come."

"Is there anything else you can tell us about this poison?"

"Only that I feel mighty sorry for the one who gets on the wrong side of Desmond."

* * *

"That went rather well," commented Legolas when Valmir had been led out of the interrogation cell. 

"It went _very_ well," agreed Aragorn somewhat heavily. "Much better than I thought it would – thanks mostly to you. We could still be trying to break him if you hadn't brought up the wellbeing of his wife."

"Every man has a weakness," said Legolas with a slightly forced smile. "You should know that well enough by now."

Aragorn chuckled, though it too was forced. "You are right," he admitted, refusing to be baited. "Though I am curious to know how you knew _this_ one's weakness."

"There was something in his eyes that was different to most other top security prisoners. He seemed far too anxious."

"And from that you discerned he had a wife?" Aragorn's tone was incredulous.

"It was elementary," said Legolas with a shake of his head. "He still wore his wedding band. No man that thought little or nothing of his wife would continue to wear his wedding band."

Aragorn shook his head with a smile. "Trust an Elf," he said. Legolas cocked an amused eyebrow in response, though he quickly sobered as he contemplated the information they had been given.

"He almost seemed too willing to give us information," he said softly.

"You don't trust what he said?"

"I do. That's what worries me. I sensed no lies in his words. Did you?"

"No." Aragorn sighed, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes. "He was very helpful. I doubt I will meet another such criminal with a conscience."

"Men don't only steal gold and jewels, you know."

"I doubt that stealing someone's daughter was how he began his life of crime."

"You never know."

"I suppose not. All the same… I almost wish he had been lying, for what he told us."

The silence seemed abrupt and very unwelcome – like it had come to make a mockery of the knowledge the two suffered to have. _Five days_. And that was for a healthy, strong, full grown Man too. Not a weakened, recuperating hobbit.

Legolas thought back to some of his earliest memories of the Ringbearer, before the Quest had officially begun. To a time when Frodo had still had warmth, comfort, plentiful meals, and the very best of company. To a time when he had still been able to smile, laugh and joke with such grace and ease. Legolas had always known Frodo to be very polite and well spoken – as well as incredibly intelligent. In fact, Legolas had encountered very few mortals who he could truthfully call more decent and caring than Frodo Baggins. After all, how many people could honestly say that they would go to the very end of the world for the slight chance that it might be saved? How many people would truly be full willing to sacrifice everything they owned in the blink of an eye, including their own mind, body and soul, for the slim possibility that they might be able to stop such a dark and deadly threat as the Lord of the Rings?

Frodo Baggins was one who should – at the very least – be respected for what he had done. Legolas knew he was only one of many who agreed that this small hobbit should be treated like a prince. It was absolutely inexcusable that any harm should befall him – especially intentional harm. The Elf could feel his very blood boiling at the thought of what his friend had been put through, just for the sake of a few men getting some easy gold.

However, anger soon melted into unease as he considered again what Valmir had said. "Five days…" he murmured. "How long do you think it would take to… before Frodo…" He could not finish his sentence. He glanced across at Aragorn. The King lowered his head, heaving a sigh that seemed to contain all the weight of the world.

"These sorts of things tend to work twice as fast on children as they do on adults," he said heavily. "Their bodies are so small and unprepared for such an assault as poison. And considering that Frodo is ill as well, not to mention that he was not in top health before any of this even began, I'd say… three days at most, if we're lucky. More likely it'll be two. I'm not sure if we can even hope for that much time."

"How much time do you need?"

"Three days would be preferable," said Aragorn, feeling like a traitor to be speaking of such thins in such a way. "Though I hate that it means another day of suffering on Frodo's part."

"I think there are going to be many more days of suffering on his part yet to come, my friend, regardless."

"I don't doubt that you're right, my friend."

That was all they had time for as the door to the cell opened again. Tharlon entered once more, directing another prisoner. But this was no man of the West. This was one of the Southrons – one of the Haradrim. The Lieutenant. His dark skin allowed little of his features to be shown in the dim lighting of the room, but Legolas saw that he carried himself almost regally, and that he stared down the length of his nose at them. This was a proud man. The Elf suppressed a sigh as he readied himself for the greater effort that he knew was to come…

The captain and prisoner came further into the room, the latter wrenching his arm from Tharlon's grip, shooting the captain a vicious glare. The captain remained rigid, not taking his eyes from the prisoner. His hand strayed to the hilt of his sword. The Southron spat out a hiss through his mouth – an undoubted warning. His upper lip was lifted into a feral sneer. White teeth glared threateningly at the captain, before the moment passed, and the prisoner sat himself down in the same regal manner that he walked. His expression returned to one of bored indifference. If Legolas hadn't known better, he would have thought he was now in the presence of _two_ kings. For a moment longer, the captain lingered, his eyes darting between the cloaked figures and the prisoner. Then with a stiff bow of his head, he excused himself, locking the door firmly behind him.

Almost at once, Aragorn realised that they would not be able to use the same tactics on this man as they had on Valmir. Looking into the Southron's eyes, he saw that this was a man who would not succumb easily at all.

"You know why you are here," he said after another moment's deliberation. He looked the Southron straight in the eye. "Tell us about the sale you made three days ago in this city to a Gondorian man – the sale of a poison."

As the words left Aragorn's mouth, both he and Legolas watched tensely as the Southron's mouth curled up into a smile. The Lieutenant of the Haradrim forces paused for only a moment as if in consideration, before staring deep into Aragorn's hood.

"No."

* * *

Gandalf had hardly finished speaking before there was a sudden, somewhat muffled thud. An instant later Sam had sprung to his feet, bleary eyed and disoriented. Less than a heartbeat later, Merry and Pippin were also awake and looking about in confusion. Gandalf shook his head, sparing the moment for amusement. If he ever wanted to gain the attention of the three before him, at least he had another word he could officially use besides 'food'. 

Leaning forward even more to the precarious point between falling off his chair and remaining in a stable position, he stared intently at Frodo, waiting with baited breath. All traces of humour had drained instantaneously from his features as he gave all attention to the Ringbearer. There was no longer any doubt that the hobbit was waking up. Though whether or not this was a good thing had yet to be seen…

"Mr Frodo?" said Sam, quickly getting a grasp on the situation, despite being slightly dazed and groggy from his rest. He pulled himself up on the bed and peered anxiously into his master's face. Pippin had half hauled himself up when Gandalf laid a halting hand on his shoulder.

"Steady there, lad," he said gently. "I think it best if you and Meriadoc stay on the ground for the moment. It will do your cousin no good to be crowded around right now." Pippin looked as if he were about to protest. Gandalf more than expected him to. But instead, he gave a pained look at his cousin's form on the bed before turning around and marching over to one of the tables. Seconds later he was depositing the basin in Gandalf's lap.

"Just in case," he said, his tone almost defiant. Gandalf regarded him for a moment before nodding slowly. He glanced across at Merry, who slung an arm around the tween's shoulders, his own expression intense.

"Good thinking, Pip," he managed to say. Pippin nodded, his gaze never leaving the bed. A moment later, he rested his head on Merry's shoulder, seeking the comfort of the extra contact.

But even as this exchange was given, Frodo's eyes slowly fluttered open, the small movement achieving the appearance of a truly painful task. They closed again almost at once. The smallest of groans escaped his cracked lips. "Merry, Pippin," said Gandalf. "If you could shut the curtains and bring over a cup of water–" He did not get time to finish his sentence before he received compliance. Suddenly the room was dulled, the walls turning to a muted grey as the afternoon sun was hidden from view.

As if in direct response to the reduction of light, Frodo's eyes dragged fully open. The over-bright blue orbs darted about, though Gandalf was almost certain that they were seeing very little, if anything at all. The pupils were pinpoint pricks where they had been dilated before. The wizard frowned in worry to note the switch in extremes.

"Frodo?" he said again. If he could get a reaction – any definite answer…

"Mr Frodo, sir?" said Sam. "Can you hear us?"

It could barely be considered a response, but a response it was. Sam and Gandalf both leaned in further as Frodo's head moved slightly towards Sam. His brows contorted into a familiar frown of concentration, though both wizard and gardener could see that the concentration was mingled with acute pain.

"Mr Frodo?" tried Sam again, his voice trembling with hesitance as he wondered whether they should really be trying to wake his master up further when he was so clearly suffering. But this time Frodo's face turned closer towards Sam, and his glazed eyes continued to move about, searching for the source of the much trusted and loved voice.

"What's happening?" asked Pippin, anxiety warring with impatience. He stood on his tiptoes, one hand grasping Merry's shoulder for balance as he tried to see better. Both Sam and Gandalf ignored him, much to his vexation.

"Try again, Sam," said Gandalf softly, his tone reassuring. The young hobbit took a deep breath, not daring to raise his hopes. When he spoke, his voice was soft and controlled, almost as if it was just another morning at Bag End.

"Mr Frodo? Won't you talk to us? We've been ever so worried about you, sir. Why – even Mr Gandalf's sitting right next to you, watching over you while Mr Strider pops out for a bit. They've been looking after you as best they can, don't you know? And that's saying something. But we need you to help us. We need you to tell us what's wrong with you, sir. Do you think you could do that for your Sam?"

Frodo's eyes did a rapid succession of blinks, his lids finally stopping closed. The frown deepened, and his pale lips pressed firmly together to make a thin line. Sam had seen that expression several times before. It was the look Frodo always got when in the company of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. It was the look he had gotten during the earlier stages of the Quest, when Legolas and Gimli had insisted on bickering over every diminutive thing under the Sun. It was the look he had gotten at the times when he had realised his hand was unconsciously creeping up to his neck to grasp the Ring. It was a look conveying a feeling of the deepest, utmost, paramount frustration. Under different circumstances, those who knew Frodo well enough would be backing away in the hopes of avoiding the explosion when it came. But with things as they were, Sam was at a loss to know what to do. Was his master irritated at his gardener's nonsensical prattle? Or was he perhaps delirious and fractious about something that he alone could see and hear? Or was he even angry with himself that he had been thrown into a situation where he could do nothing but rely on others?

Sam did not know, but looking up at Gandalf's face, he knew the wizard noted the expression as well… and was looking quite worried about it too. "Frodo," he said. "I need you to try and relax. I'm going to give you a bit of water, lad. You need to keep your fluids up. Are you able to swallow, do you think?"

Stunning blue irises were once more revealed as Frodo forced open his eyes. Slowly, thoughtfully, he gave a definite, jerk of his head – consent. Gandalf moved himself closer to the bed, and carefully helped Frodo to sit up. Almost at once the hobbit clenched his eyes shut as he fought a fierce wave of nausea. The blanket covering him slipped down to his lap, and at once he felt the extreme cold of the room. He felt his torso give a deep shudder, not at all helping the unbalance of his delicate stomach. He was going to throw up.

He wanted desperately to tell someone, but he could not bully his mouth, tongue or voice into co-operation. But not for nothing was Gandalf head of the Istari order. Sensing the change, he quickly pushed the basin to Frodo just in time. The hobbit retched, bringing up all the tea, water and broth he had been carefully given in the last few hours. It was not a pretty sight. Even when his stomach was empty, he continued to heave, bringing up bile. At the very sound of his cousin's misery, Merry impulsively tugged Pippin closer to him, hugging the sobbing tweenager as he himself felt tears streaming down his face.

Was this never going to end?

TBC

* * *

_A/N: Please, please, please, please, please, please forgive me! I'm soooooooooooo sorry that this took so increadibly long. But I've finally finished exams and yr 11, so I'll FINALLY have more time to dedicate to writing! D But yeah, I'm really sorry about taking so long, and for giving you all such a boring chapter too. Hopefully part 2 of this one will be a bit better. Yes, that's right. This was only the first part of chapter 16, even though it's already one of the longest updates I've posted. Aaah well. Anyway, on a more personal level:_

_Astron-Meares - lol, yep. this is drama central right here. And it's only going to get more tense in the next few chapters, so i suggest you have a good cuddly soft toy or arm you can latch onto. ;-) Hope you continue to not get too bored with this story, though after the tremendous wait I put you all through, I wouldn't be surprised. I wouldn't have too many expectations for this chapter,either shakes head. Not much action, really. Aaah well.I can assure you that more will be coming. )_

_Breon Briarwood - I'm tremendously glad to hear your fingies have grown back:D But don't strain them or anything now, or I'll have to send for Sam, and we can't have him being distracted from worrying about poor Frodo now, can we? And indeed he will be worrying a lot now that he's awake. I hope this chapter explained why the poison's taking so long. )_

_FrodoBaggins87 - You're making me blush! Thank you so much for the lovely compliment! lol. )_

_Kaewi - Lol. You've been waiting for THIS chapter even longer if you haven't given up on it already. I can only offer my sincerest apologies and hope you can forgive me. Hopefully you at least got some more answers from this update. I can tell you now that more still are on the way, too. ;-) Glad you enjoyed the detail. It's hard work making a story like this believable. Thank you for your support. )_

_Kellie - Glad you enjoyed it. I'll admit I was quite proud of that opening bit to the chapter. ) Sorry about taking so long to update, though. Hopefully things will be quicker now that school's (finally) over._

_lindahoyland - lol. I think I mean haemphilia too. Silly me. Biology revision confirms it. Lol. Thanks for pointing that out! And you're right about Frodo's friends. They really do care about him a lot. Hopefully that will help to pull him through all of this. _

_Obi wan Skywalker - Frodo certainly is in some need for saving, lol. I feel really bad for all I've put him through. Glad you've been enjoying the story so far. )_

_Tallis Keeton - glad you're finding the story entertaining. I only hope that you're still interested after the long interval between updates and the considerably more boring storyline for this chapter. And don't worry, there'll be some Aragorn/Legolas/Gimli action later on. ;-)_


End file.
